


Song of Hakonsdotter: A Warrior Rises

by gwap_queen



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Character Development, Comfort/Angst, Consensual, Deviates From Canon, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Drama, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Graphic Description, Heroism, Humor, Rivalry, Romance, Sexual Tension, Side Quests, Side Story, Skyrim Main Quest, Slow Burn, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 101,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwap_queen/pseuds/gwap_queen
Summary: Honorary Title: All Dogs Go To Sovngarde!When a traveling mercenary finds herself being accused of allying with the Stormcloaks, she's arrested and condemned to death. Salvation comes on the wings of ruin, but when she manages to claw her way to safety, she's granted a new lease on life. What will she make of herself with her freedom? And what destiny do the Divines have in store for her?





	1. Chapter 1

**16** **th** **Last Seed, 4E201**

 

She hadn’t been this angry in a long, long time.

Her hands were trembling as they held up the leather flap of the saddle bag, and her eyes stared disbelievingly at the dozens of small indigo bottles nestled inside—identical to the ones filling the other saddle bag, _and_ her client’s rucksack. There were easily over a hundred bottles, and she registered that fact in a daze, somewhere behind the roaring anger.

The steady pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears  were making it significantly more difficult to hear the noble man babbling from where he stood behind her— difficult, but not impossible. He was trying desperately to quell her obvious rage, but couldn’t seem to stick to any one angle for more than a sentence or two. She could hear the nerves stretched taut in his voice, and the unmistakable pitch of fear. 

'You weren’t supposed to find out!’ He sounded almost pouty, and when her only response was to hunch her shoulders and tighten her grip on the saddle bag, his tone turned appeasing again. 'Look, it’s not as bad as you think, I swear! I know I lied, but...but I _promise_ , if you just hold up your end of the bargain and take me to Riften, I’ll split the money with y—’

'I don’t want your dirty money,’ she spat, cutting him off, and slapped the flap down in disgust. 'I’m having nothing to do with this.’ Her voice was quivering in her anger, and she remonstrated herself viciously to make it hold still. Now was no time to sound weak. 

'What do you mean?’ His voice was laced with obvious panic, but still she didn’t turn around. 

'You’re _already_ involved,’  he continued. 'You took on this job, signed a contract...’ his words were starting to slip together as he talked faster in his fear. 'I paid you good money to travel with me. If you’re thinking of backing out now, I won’t have it. I’ll—’ his voice broke, and then came back threatening, with the sheen of desperation still coating his words like oil. 'I’ll ruin you! I’ll tell everyone I know that you’re no good. You won’t find work agai—’

Now she  _did_ swing around to face him, and the look in her eyes had the noble staggering back. 

Her right hand gripped the hilt of her sword.  F or a wild moment, she considered just killing him, and leaving the body to rot in the woods.  She had always considered herself an honorable woman, and there was no honor in murdering a client.  A nd she never had before...but she had never had a job go sour like this. She eyed him, taking in the sheen of sweat on his pale face, and the softness of his privileged body, and knew that she could do it. The man was a few years her junior, and looked as if he’d barely held a blade in his life. The sun was starting to set behind the trees, turning the forest murky; it would be dark soon. If she killed him now and buried the bags, she could ride the horse  to Nightgate Inn, and nobody would be the wiser...

But the crazed moment passed, and she mentally shook herself.

_That’s not you._

In the four years that she’d been a mercenary, she’d worked hard to make sure that she always stayed on the right side of the law, and  had  carefully screened her prospective clients.  This job hadn’t seemed any different when she’d taken it, and as a result s he hadn’t discovered this little  _pissant’s_ secret until it was far too late. 

A nd whether she liked it or not, his threat held weight. He came from an important family in Morrowind, and he had the ability to cripple her business, if that was what he wanted to do. 

But it still wasn’t worth resorting to murder.

She peeled her fingers off of her sword, and balled her hands into fists. She hit him with a withering glare, and when she spoke again, it was through clenched teeth.

'I made things perfectly clear when we met. I transport people, animals, objects. I don’t move slaves. And I don’t move _drugs_.’

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off again.

'That—’she jerked her head in the direction of the stalled horse, and his rucksack laying open on the ground—'is a fortune’s worth of Skooma. What were you planning to do with so much?’

His cheeks flamed, and  he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive in spite of (or perhaps because of) his arrogance. 'I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’

Her eyes narrowed even further. 'I’d bet you’re planning to sell it all over the province.’

The look on his face was all the response she needed, and she drew herself up to her full and considerable height before continuing.

'I should report you to every Hold in Skyrim,’ she snapped. 'And I still might. But for now, I’m making things easy on myself—I’m dissolving our contract due to you breaching the terms.’

He gaped at her then, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but before he could interrupt her, she continued.

'I’m not going to leave you here in the woods by yourself, no matter if you deserve it. I’m not heartless, and you look like the type of snowberry who’d get taken out by a skeever.’

'You can’t do this,’ he spluttered.

'The _hell_ I can’t,’ she snapped back. 'We’ll travel together to  the closest settlement, and then you’re on your own. I’m washing my hands of this. And if you have even part of a brain in that head, those bottles will disappear somewhere along the way. Catch my drift?’ She resettled the straps of her own pack on her shoulders, and turned around to leave. 'Now pack up your shit, and let’s move.’ With that, she started walking.

'You can’t _do_ this to me,’ he wailed at her back. 'You double-crossing bitch! Do you know who I _am?’_ But she just smiled grimly to herself and kept on walking.

  


  


T hey’d only been walking for another few minutes when she’d had to rustle up her lantern, and light it to illuminate their path through the trees. Ordinarily she would’ve set up camp, but only a  fool would think to try sleeping next to a freshly made enemy. 

And there was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that she’d made an enemy out of the angry Breton riding behind her. He’d made all sorts of different threats as she’d walked away into the forest and he’d had to rush to catch up with her. But when he’d seen that nothing he said was fazing her anymore, he had quickly fallen into sullen silence, and it was in silence that they traveled  now.

She knew from her experience with the surrounding area that they were coming up on a place called Darkwater Crossing; there was a community of miners who made their home there  during the summer months, and they were well enough established that they had a courier line that ran periodically out to several of the other holds, and especially Windhelm and Riften.

As far as she was concerned, the community more than qualified as a settlement, and a plan was quickly forming in her mind. She would leave her idiot client— _ex_ - _client_ , she firmly corrected herself—with the miners, and leave them some gold to compensate for the inconvenience of knowing him. She would ask whoever was in charge of the  camp to make sure he was taken care of until they could send out a courier with a request for a carriage. And then the scum ball could go wherever he wanted; whether to Riften or back to Morrowind, or to Oblivion for all she cared—it wouldn’t be her problem anymore.

She was feeling satisfied with herself and with the plan, and picked up her pace towards the encampment she knew wasn’t far away. The terrain was plenty hilly in this part of the province, and soon they were negotiating a narrow winding path that made the horse whinny nervously, thickly forested on either side. It was far from easy-going, and she subconsciously held her breath as she led the three of them onward. Around the last bend, after several tense minutes, the ground evened out and she  breathed a sigh of relief. Then she heard a rustling noise to her immediate left, and what she saw when she turned her head made her stop in her tracks.

S tormcloaks. Over two dozen of them sat huddled on the ground in a loose circle against the rocky outcropping she’d just picked their way down from. They looked haggard and worn, their cuirasses patched and threadbare, their faces flickering in the dim light of a single lantern burning low in the  centre of the circle. And all of them were staring at her.

_Shit._ She would’ve preferred a  sabre cat. Any other dangerous beast, really. 

She’d been keeping track of the civil war’s progress—or lack there of—while she’d worked out of other provinces. And in all of her  forays back into Skyrim, she’d been careful to avoid contact with either faction...but especially with the Stormcloaks. They were rebels; traitors to the Empire, and because of it they were hunted ruthlessly by Imperials and Aldmeri alike. No place where Stormcloaks lingered was safe for a neutral party—Imperial authorities had infamously little sympathy for anyone who ‘allied’ themselves with rebels, and it didn’t take much to count as an ally in the eyes of the Empire  _or_ Dominion.

And these Stormcloaks were no exception. They’d been sitting huddled and silent off of some narrow forest trail under cover of night, with hardly any light to even see by, let alone a fire to warm themselves or cook their food. They looked as if they hadn’t slept in days, and many of their faces held open suspicion—they were clearly trying to lay low here.

This was not a good place to be.

Before she could make another move, a man near the centre of the circle with a long blonde beard and a prominent scar rose quickly to his feet and addressed her.

'Hail, kinsman.’ His tone was guarded, and she saw that his hand gripped the handle of an axe at his side. 'What business do you have here?’

'No business,’ she replied immediately. She squared her shoulders and held his gaze. 'We’ll just be passing through.’

He quirked a brow, tilted his head. 'This is pretty secluded country. What brings you through _this_ part of the forest?’

Inwardly, she cursed. They probably thought her an Imperial spy. She would have to play her cards right, or she’d have a bigger problem on her hands than the idiot behind her.

'I am a mercenary,’ she told him, her tone amenable. 'And this man is my client. We’re making our way to Riften.’

'To Riften, you say?’ The Jarl of Riften backed the Stormcloaks, and everybody knew it. 'Why take such an indirect route?’

'My client wished to avoid the volcanic plains, so we’re making our way around them.’ The words came easily, because they were the truth. The man seemed to relax, just a bit; it was a well-known fact that the plains were best avoided. She extended her hands palms up in front of her.

'We have no quarrel with you. We’re just on our way to the Rift.’

He eyed her for another second, and then nodded to her curtly. 'Very well.’ He relaxed his grip on the axe, and she turned to make a hasty departure.

It was then that the Breton opened his mouth.

'Now, hang on a second,’ he wheedled, and the eyes in the circle shifted from her to the man on the horse. 

'You can hardly expect me to travel through the entire night, can you? I need to rest.’ He flicked his eyes over the group of ragged men and women to his left, and jutted a hand out towards them. 'You said yourself that it’s safer to venture the wilds in numbers, and it looks like they’re already set up for the night. Why don’t we camp with them?’

B oth she and the bearded Stormcloak started talking at once.

'We’re not looking for—’ 

'That’s not a good—’

They looked at one another for a bare second, and then she snapped her head back to look up at the man she was leading.

'It would be best for us to keep moving,’ she said tersely.

'But _why?_ ’ His tone of voice made it perfectly clear that he thought she was being crazy, and his face was set into stubborn lines.

She felt her anger starting to mount again, but kept it firmly in check. 'You can’t just stumble into any camp you find and insist that they take you in. That’s not how the real world works.’

He straightened up in his saddle defiantly, and flippantly tossed the reins he’d been clutching over the saddle’s horn.  He looked maddeningly imperious now, and his mind was clearly made up. 'I see no reason for us to continue. This is a perfectly good place to set up camp, and surely, rebels or no, they wouldn’t mind sharing the space with fellow travelers.’ 

She opened her mouth to respond, but one of the Stormcloaks beat her to it.  Tough and grizzled, with a hank of greying hair, he scowled at the Breton as he lurched up from the ground and took a menacing step  toward them .

'Rebels? You are looking at proud Nords. The true sons and daughters of Skyrim! If we rebel against anything, Breton, it’s the oppression of Elven _filth_.’ 

Things were starting to get out of hand. The noble idiot had clearly offended more than a few of the Stormcloak soldiers, and a dark muttering had started among them. She spun quickly around, and held her hands up and out in a peaceable gesture.

'Please, don’t listen to him,’ she said quickly, trying to keep her tone civil. 'He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Then she rounded back on the insufferable man on his horse, and leveled him with a vicious glare.

'This is non negotiable. We are _leaving, now._ ’

'Aye.’ The Stormcloak who’d first spoken agreed with her, and he sounded decidedly unfriendly now. 'T’would be best for you to listen to your sell-sword, I think.’

The young Breton’s eyes gleamed with a strange kind of belligerence, and when she reached out to grab his reins, he snatched them away from her.

Her temper surged, and her words came out in a shout. 'Enough of this! Stop making a n  _ass_ of yourself, and move the gods-damned horse!’

'Or _what_ , you stupid _s’wit_?’ he shouted back. ‘What are you going to do?’

W hat her answer might’ve been, they never found out. At that moment, the forest around them filled with the sound of yelling men, and all at once they were no longer alone in the camp.

  


  


What she’d feared most as soon as they’d stumbled into the Stormcloak’s hiding place had become a reality. It was an Imperial ambush.

The scuffle that ensued had been spirited, but short. The Stormcloaks had outnumbered the Imperials, but the Imperials had the advantage of surprise, and had taken their time surrounding the camp. And the Stormcloaks  _were_ diminished; exhaustion made them easy opponents, and it wasn’t long before the fight was determined. 

She had tried to flee the scene and leave the Breton to his fate when chaos had broken out in the camp, but a soldier in steel armor had anticipated her and knocked her flat on her back, winding and dazing her. She hadn’t so much as drawn her sword in resistance, but from there, it made little difference. Her hands and feet were bound with rope like the surviving Stormcloak soldiers, and she was dragged roughly through the woods by her wrists.

She could hear the nobleman yelling pitifully from somewhere ahead of her in the trees. He was sobbing, proclaiming loudly over and over again that he had nothing to do with the rebellion, telling their captors his name and the names of his noble parents, but it didn’t seem to be doing him any good.

When she craned her  neck , she could see through the light of the Imperial’s torches that they had commandeered the Breton’s horse,  and were walking it along. Her stomach lurched painfully—she knew what they’d find when they searched the saddle bags.

After another minute, amidst all of the Stormcloak’s cursing and the Breton’s sobbing and the rustling of the undergrowth as bodies were dragged through it, she heard the voices of Imperial soldiers calling out to each other  in the distance. Moments later the trees started to thin, and then she was being hauled onto an actual road—one of the Emp e ror’s roads, stone-cobbled and well established. As soon as she felt her armored back connecting with the rocks, the man who’d been dragging her through the forest abruptly dropped her, and headed back into the woods—presumably to help others with their prisoners. 

She struggled against her bonds, but they’d been well tied, and before she could make much progress, a different Imperial soldier approached her.

'Please.’ She did her best to keep her voice level, to reason with him. 'I am not a rebel. I was simply passing through when you attacked the camp.’

H e snorted. 'Right. Because this would be the first time I’ve ever heard  _that_ excuse.’

'Look at me. Do I _look_ like a Stormcloak? Am I wearing the armor? Think.’

The man held his torch up then to actually look at her. He saw a statuesque Nord woman in sturdy armor, devoid of Eastmarch’s bear. She had thick black hair that had unravelled and was full of debris from the forest. Mud streaked her thoroughly, and there was a fire in her eyes that betrayed her level voice. 

But t he Imperial shook his head. 'It doesn’t matter. There’s more than one way to make a traitor of yourself. And the company you keep can’t be ignored. Armor or no armor, we’re taking you in.’

Frustration spiked in her and clawed at her like a wild animal, and s he had to bite her lip to keep from snarling.  She glared at him  in contempt. 'I’m innocent,’  s he  said flatly.

'We’ll be letting General Tullius be the judge of that.’

‘If he’s half as dim as the rest of you, then he can kiss my ass.’

Now the Imperial looked menacingly at her, and when he responded, his voice was sharp. 'Hold your tongue, woman. You’re  in the Empire’s custody now .’  He reached down to grab her with the hand not holding a torch, and started to drag her down the bumpy road. 

She weighed her options quickly, and didn’t see that she had many—as far as she was concerned, there was really only one. Determination had started a fire in her gut.

'See if you can keep me that way,’ she responded. And then she reared up with all her strength.

The force of her flailing as hard as she could was enough for her to drag her captor down to the ground and wrench herself free from his grasp; quick as a hare, she was on her hobbled feet and staggering away from him. She only knew one flame spell, and it wasn’t very strong, but she used it now to blast the ropes that bound her feet together. It took longer than she’d expected, nearly too long, and the fire coming into contact with her leather boots made them singe and smoulder. But the Imperial had on heavier armor than she did, and she was given precious seconds while he struggled to clamber to his feet. After what felt like an eternity to her adrenaline-filled system, she ripped the charred ropes apart with a lunging step, and she started at a dead run for the forest she’d come from, hands still bound in front of her.

The Imperial had been in shock at her sudden escape, but now he started to yell at the top of his lungs.

' _Runner! We’ve got a runner over here!’_

Chaos broke out around her all over again, but she didn’t waste time looking back. She ignored the various aches in her body and the searing in her lungs and focused all of her energy on making it to the tree line.

She was certain she was going to make it. She was certain, right up to the point where a different Imperial soldier tackled her back and knocked her to the ground, hitting her head on a rock jutting up from the soil, and everything went spinning into black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter of A Warrior Rises. I hope you all enjoy :)  
> I'll be updating very regularly, as often as I can!  
> Let me know what you think.

When she came to, the first thing she registered was the pain in her head. It was threatening to make her sick to her stomach—and the rocking and swaying wasn’t helping anything.

Then she thought to question the rocking and the swaying. She focused her ears over the pounding between them, and other noises started to come in. The creaking of wood. The trundling of wheels on stone. The nickering of horses and the _clip-clop_ of hooves.

She was confused for several moments, the pieces refusing to fall into place. And then she remembered how she’d come to be unconscious at all, and all at once, she realized it.

She was in the back of a carriage.

She could feel daylight trying to stab through her lids and into her throbbing eyes; they must have driven straight through the night. She needed to find out where she was.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes to the harsh light of day, immediately letting out a vicious oath as the pain in her head struck her like a hammer. She tried to block the sun’s rays with her hands, but they were tied behind her now. And she’d opened her eyes for nothing—all she could see was trees passing by. She let her lids close again.

Suddenly, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a male voice.

‘Hey...you there, kinsman.’

So she wasn’t alone in the wagon? She groaned, not daring to open her eyes again. Whoever was talking to her could wait.

‘Hey! Sell-sword!’

Her eyes snapped open again after all.

‘You’re finally awake!’

When she turned her head, she came face to face with the picturesque definition of what most people thought of when they heard the word ‘Nord’. A man sat across from her on the other side of the cart with his hands bound in front of him, staring at her intently. He was tall and muscled, with thick and partially braided blonde hair falling loose on either side of a chiseled face, and the eyes that met hers were a deep, dark blue. He was wearing a tattered Stormcloak cuirass—so he must’ve been part of the group in the forest.

When she was silent, he spoke again.

‘I was starting to think those bastards hit you too hard.’

She grimaced then, eyes flashing angrily. ‘I’m starting to think they did, too.’

He grinned. ‘We Nords are heartier than Imperials give us credit for.’ Then his smile faded, and he looked curious again. ‘You’re the one that was on your way to Riften, right?’

She nodded, and then winced as her head gave another ugly throb.

He let loose a frustrated sigh and shook his head. ‘You were a sitting duck, same as us. We didn’t notice those damn soldiers until they were right on top of us.’

‘They didn’t seem to care much when I told them I wasn’t with you.’ She couldn’t keep all of the hostility out of her voice, but instead of offended, he looked sympathetic.

‘It’s a gods damned shame, to be certain. But that’s the Empire for you.’ He lifted his bound hands then, and pointed to the space ahead of them. ‘That poncy little Breton you were travelling with is in one of the wagons up ahead. He cried for hours...a real lion, that one.’ The sarcasm laced heavily through his voice, and at the thought of the noble, she made a sound of disgust.

And then he sobered up significantly, eyes searching hers again. ‘Did you know what he was up to, when you agreed to bring him here? Carrying all that dark elf trash?’

She winced. So they knew about the Skooma. If even a fellow prisoner was asking her about it, there was no doubt in her mind that her captors knew it too.

‘Not at all,’ she growled. ‘That little pissant lied to me. I had no idea what he was up to. I’d only just found out when we ran into your group. That was why I was being so harsh with him.’ She thought for a second about what an asshole her client had been, and shook her head. ‘One reason why, anyway.’

He nodded, as if he’d had his suspicions confirmed. ‘I figured as much. You didn’t seem the type, you know? Shifty.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Of course, they say that the best ones _don’t_ look shifty, even when they are. Maybe that’s why they suspected you as soon as they looked in his bags.’ He scowled. ‘But there was still no honor in them taking all your gear. Damned thieves.’

_Taking all her—?_ Oh, for the love of the gods! It was only then that she noticed that her armor, weapons, and rucksack were all gone, everything she’d had, taken. She was wearing nothing but the cotton underclothes that protected her skin from her armor, so thin it was a wonder—or an embarrassment—that she hadn’t noticed them earlier. She wasn’t even wearing shoes.

Another wave of white hot anger went coursing through her then, and she let loose a string of expletives so loud that it caught the attention of the Imperial driving the carriage.

‘Shut up back there!’

If her hands were free, she would’ve ripped the driver’s head off. Instead she bit her lip until she nearly drew blood, and breathed through her nose until she felt a semblance of calm. The Nord man sat there staring at her. Her things being taken was obviously news to her, and his sympathetic look had grown noticeably more intense. Finally, she spoke again.

‘My things...do you know where...?’ Perhaps she could take her gear back by force, as soon as her hands were untied.

He nodded. ‘You know the Empire. Bloody pack-rats. They took most of your things and stored them in one of the carts up ahead. Can’t be sure which, though.’

Hope and excitement were burning in her gut, but his next words dashed them both.

‘But I don’t think you’ll have much luck getting it back. They threw it in a chest, with a heavy lock. I don’t see how you’d get it open without the key.’

_So that was it, then._ As his words sank in, she slumped in defeat, her eyes clicking shut as they burned with bitter anger.

Neither of them spoke for several moments, and then she heard him clear his throat.

‘Hey...I’m sorry about your things getting taken. My name is Ralof. I hail from Riverwood. What do they call you by?’

She sighed. What was the point in being guarded now? She opened her eyes to look at him.

‘My name is Merrin.’

‘Oho!’ He smiled again, despite their obviously grim situation. ‘Finally, someone friendly to talk to on this endless ride. You’ve been out all night. They had this horse-thief in the wagon when they nabbed us.’ He jerked his head to his left. ‘And I tried to ask him his name, but he wouldn’t give it to me. Now him, _he’s_ a shifty one.’

Cursing herself thoroughly for not being more observant, she turned to look down the length of the carriage, and saw not one but two other people inside.

Immediately to her right sat a hulking Nord, with a mane of honey colored hair. He was dressed in finery, with a cloak of raven’s feathers on his broad and muscled back. As if he felt her stare, he turned his head to meet her eyes, and she saw that his were a clear and daunting grey. She also saw that he was gagged with linen wraps, and incapable of speaking at all. Their eyes held for several moments, and there was a proud spirit in his steely gaze that would’ve made her suspect he was of high birth, even if he’d been wearing rags.

The other man in the cart was less formidable. He _was_ dressed in rags, but they seemed to actually belong to him. He sat on Ralof’s side of the carriage, several feet away from him. He had a much slighter build than the other two, and roughly chopped brown hair that fell to his chin. He was staring angrily at Ralof, and he _did_ look decidedly shifty to her. So this was the horse-thief, then.

Up until then, the man had been sitting in the cart so quietly that she hadn’t noticed he was there. But Ralof’s comment seemed to have angered him, and he twisted on the bench to face them.

‘ _Damn_ you Stormcloaks.’ His dark eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.’

Then he shifted his gaze over to her before Ralof could say anything. ‘You there! Merrin, you said? You and me, we shouldn’t be here! It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.’

He was trying to seem angry, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw fear at their core. Across from her, Ralof scoffed.

‘We’re all brothers and sisters in binds _now_ , thief.’

‘Hey!’ The carriage driver again, sounding irked this time. ‘I said shut up back there!’

Both men looked like they had more to say, but reluctantly feel into silence. For a few minutes they only sat as they were carried steadily down the road; even though she spent the time trying her best to discern where they were, the jagged rockfaces and coniferous trees didn’t give her any clues.

The thief was the first one to break the silence.

‘What’s wrong with _him_ , huh?’ With his bound hands, he was gesturing to the gagged man beside her.

Ralof’s eyes lit up in anger. ‘Watch your tongue,’ he barked. ‘You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak—the true High King!’

Her stomach lurched. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm? Leader of the rebellion in Skyrim?

She turned her head again to look at him with new eyes, and saw that he held his head high. He regarded the people in the wagon around him now with his back stiff and eyes burning. Embracing recognition.

Looked like she’d been right about him being high-born. But what on earth was he doing here? Worry had started to churn in her gut as a realization hit her. A second later, as if he’d read her mind, the horse-thief spoke her concerns aloud.

‘Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But _you’re_ the leader of the rebellion! If they’ve captured _you_...Oh gods.’ His anger had vanished like smoke on the wind, and now he only sounded horrified. ‘Oh gods, where are they taking us?!’

For the first time since she’d woken up, Ralof sounded nothing but haggard, and his exhaustion showed through. ‘I don’t know where we’re going. But Sovngarde awaits.’

‘No.’ The thief railed back as if Ralof had slapped him, eyes alight with growing terror. ‘This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!’ He bent forward suddenly, curling in on himself as he brought his bound hands to his face, and started rocking back and forth.

Merrin looked at him with pity, but didn’t know what to say. Worry gnawed at her stomach like a rat; if what Ralof said was true, then they all had serious problems. She had no intention of dying, that much was a fact. But how would she prevent it? She _had_ to find a way to escape.

Silence had fallen over the cart again, aside from the thief’s rapid breathing, and as they rode, Merrin looked around. It turned out that their wagon was the last in the line; about ten feet behind them, a Nord Imperial brought up the rear on horseback—probably to take care of anybody who thought to throw themselves off of a wagon.

Her hands had gone numb a long time ago behind her, and she doubted she could use them for anything. Even if she could use them, there was nothing to use them _for_ ; the cart was devoid of anything that might help her.

She’d really gotten herself into it this time.

The sun had risen steadily higher into the sky as they’d driven, and now it was past it’s zenith. How much farther did they have to go? If she had to sit here much longer completely powerless, she thought she’d lose her mind.

It had been silent for a _very_ long time when suddenly, Ralof spoke.

‘Hey. What village are you from, horse-thief?’

The dark haired man had fallen silent long ago, but he’d never sat back up. At Ralof’s words he turned his head, and his dark eyes were full of anger.

‘Why do you care?’ he hissed.

Ralof shrugged his shoulders and looked sorrowful. ‘A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.’

The thief had clearly been expecting some other response, and the one he actually got seemed to hit him hard. His shoulders sagged and his expression was pitiful, and it wrenched at something in Merrin’s heart.

‘...Rorikstead,’ he whispered at last. ‘I’m from Rorikstead.’

‘And what of you, Merrin?’ Ralof looked over at her. ‘From where do you hail?’

She only shook her head at him, her chest feeling tight. No matter what his sensibilities were, home was one thing she refused to think about. She couldn’t afford to, now.

He seemed to understand, though, because he didn’t press her further.

Another melancholy wave of silence overtook them, but she refused to be dragged down into its depths. She ignored the pain in her head and kept her eyes sharp for any thing, any distraction that would give her a moment’s upper hand. Any chance of escape.

After another few minutes, the road sloped decisively downhill, and shortly after that, they rounded a bend in the road. All of a sudden, the front gates of a village loomed not far ahead, and the carriages were all being driven inside. As their carriage finally passed through the gates, she heard yet another Imperial guard call down from a watch-tower above.

‘General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!’

Her stomach lurched violently all over again at hearing Ralof’s suspicions confirmed, and a voice who’s owner she couldn’t see called back from somewhere to her right.

‘Good. Let’s get this over with.’

On the other side of the cart, the horse-thief’s eyes were blown wide with panic, and he dove head-first into a feverish, muttered prayer. ‘Shor. Mara. Dibella. Kynareth. Akatosh! Divines, please help me...’

Desperation wanted to flicker to life inside of her, but she mercilessly tamped it down. What good would it do her here?

The carriage was being steered down the main road, and none of it was familiar to her. This wasn’t a village she’d ever been to before. Suddenly Ralof straightened in his seat, eyes blazing as he looked to their right.

‘ _Look_ at him. General Tullius, the _military governor_.’ He spat the words out as if they were poison.

‘And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves,’ he snarled. ‘I bet they have something to do with this!’

It was then that Merrin got her first chance to look at Tullius. She saw a grey-haired Imperial man of average height in gleaming armor, with a flowing cape of crimson at his back. He stood talking to a member of the Aldmeri Dominion, a female on horseback in black satin robes. Before she could take in anything else, the wall of a building cut off her view.

‘This is Helgen,’ Ralof offered, regaining her attention. ‘I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in...’ His eyes were far away and full of sorrow, and something about them made her tremble. It was as if he’d given up on living, and was only reflecting before the inevitability of death.

‘It’s funny,’ he continued in a mirthless voice. ‘When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.’

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—when the voice of a child hit her ears.

‘Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?’

She whipped her head around.

A young boy in a red tunic sat cross-legged on the porch of what appeared to be an inn, and his eyes followed the carts with interest. He wasn’t alone; a man and woman, presumably his parents, stood on either side of him, and they leaned against the porch railing as they watched the procession go by.

For a moment, she met the father’s eyes, and then a shadow passed over his features. He turned to look down at his son and frowned.

‘Go inside, little cub.’

Internally, Merrin approved of this man, a stranger she’d never met. No child should see what was going to happen here.

The boy’s voice was plaintive. ‘But why? I wanna watch the soldiers!’

‘Inside the house, now.’ Their voices were fading as the carriage drew further away, but she could hear that his tone brooked no argument, and soon the boy conceded defeat. ‘Yes, pa.’

She craned her head to look behind them, and could just make out the boy as he closed the door to the inn behind him.

A moment later, the carriage slowed significantly, and then lurched to a halt.

‘Why are we stopping?’ the horse-thief asked, his voice high and full of fear.

Ralof sighed. ‘Why do you think? End of the line.’

‘ _Move it_!’ A harsh female voice rang out to their left, and when Merrin looked she saw that it was the first Imperial woman she’d seen since this whole thing started, and she was ushering prisoners out of the carts that’d already settled. Ragged Stormcloak men and woman jumped miserably from the backs of the carriages in single file, hands bound in front of them, faces streaked with mud.

Soon it was their turn to get shuffled along.

‘Let’s go,’ Ralof said bitterly. ‘Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.’

Merrin was the last to leave the cart, and when she stood, she almost toppled over again; it had been ages since she’d sat for so long without moving, and her knees screamed in tandem with her head as she hopped down to the ground. Ralof moved to steady her, but she shook her head at him.

‘No, wait! We’re not rebels!’ The horse-thief yelled at the Commander as she passed in front of them.

‘We weren’t even with them! Ask them, they’ll tell you!’ But his desperate pleas were coldly ignored.

Ralof nudged him from behind. ‘Face your death with some courage, thief. The Empire’s made it’s decision.’

‘He isn’t wrong to say it, though,’ she hissed, as anger bubbled fresh inside her.

The Commander stood in front of the group, about twenty five people in all, and addressed them as a whole.

‘Step to the block when we call your name from the list. One at a time!’

‘Empire loves their damn lists,’ Ralof muttered.

A Nord Imperial stepped up to meet them then, and she recognized him as the man who’d been bringing up the procession’s rear. He was holding a quill and a sheaf of parchment, and he looked at it before he started calling out names. Evidently, he’d started with the final cart.

‘Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.’

Every Stormcloak there stood up straight with pride as Ulfric stepped forward and out of their midst. Many of them cheered, and Ralof shouted after him. ‘It has been an _honor_ , Jarl Ulfric!’

‘Ralof of Riverwood.’

Ralof turned to her and nodded, blue eyes flashing, before he walked over to join his Jarl. She only stared after him for a moment before her eyes glued themselves back to the man holding the list.

‘Lokir of Rorikstead.’

_So_ that’s _what his name is,_ she thought. But when Lokir heard his name called, he broke.

‘No, I’m not a rebel,’ he cried frantically. ‘You can’t do this!’ And with that, he shoved his way past the people in front of him and broke off at a run down the road. She’d been thinking of doing the exact same thing if she saw an opportune moment present itself, and for a wild second she considered veering off in the opposite direction while he caused a distraction. But he wasn’t a distraction for long.

When he didn’t listen to the Commander yelling for him to halt, she called for her archers to fire on him, and they cut him down with half a dozen arrows to the back. He fell to the cobbled road in a heap, and was immediately still.

The Commander whipped her head back to face the group, savage triumph shining in her eyes.

‘Anybody else feel like _running_?’

A nervous silence descended over the crowd, and her heart picked up in her chest. The reality of her situation was slamming into her like a boulder.

Suddenly, the man with the list looked at her, confused. ‘Wait,’ he called. ‘You, step forward.’

Staring at him sullenly, keenly aware of the Commander and her archers watching every step she took, Merrin did as she was told.

He looked her over. ‘Who...are you?’

‘I’m innocent,’ she deadpanned. ‘I’m not a rebel.’

‘That wasn’t the question,’ the Commander snapped. ‘We already have your charge written up. Tell the soldier your name!’

She glared at him, and noted that he seemed put out.

‘Your name?’ he asked, more gently than before.

‘Merrin.’

‘And your surname?’

She gritted her teeth, and spoke angrily through them. ‘Hakonsdotter.’

He used the quill to scratch down what she’d given him, and then looked up at her again.

‘And from where do you hail?’

‘None of your gods damned business.’ And she spit at him, watching in satisfaction as it hit him in the face.

The Commander stormed forward then, and boxed her in the ear, making it boom and then ring, dazing her and causing her head to throb nauseatingly. She fell to her knees, and the woman grabbed her by her undershirt and dragged her to her feet again.

‘Tell the man from where you hail!!’

Merrin was about to spit at the Commander too when the man with the list interrupted.

‘Captain, what should we do? She wasn’t on the list. Neither of them.’

‘Forget the list.’ The Imperial woman’s face twisted in disgust, and she roughly let Merrin go, nearly toppling her again. ‘She goes to the block.’

Her eyes met with the man’s as he wiped her spit from his face, and rather than seeming vindictive, his face held plain regret and unease.

‘You picked a terrible time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here, in your homeland.’

She was all out of words to spare for him, and she stared at him coldly in silence.

One by one, he named the rest of the prisoners standing there, and they shuffled forward to wait by the chopping block. When the man was finished with the list, he handed it to the Commander.

General Tullius came striding up to them then, and she finally got a good look at his tan, weathered face. The Commander handed him the lists she’d just been given, and he gave them the barest of glances before he procured a list of his own. From this, he rattled off the charges.

For twenty one Stormcloak soldiers, the charge of treason against the Empire by participating in the Stormcloak rebellion. For the now-deceased Lokir of Rorikstead, the charge of horse theft. For herself, and one Dalan Dufont of Morrowind, the charge of possession of illicit substances with the intent to sell, and racketeering profit for the rebel war effort.

She didn’t have to say a word about how the charge was horseshit—Dufont started gibbering all over again after the charge was laid about how it was all a big mistake, all a misunderstanding, if they would only hold him and contact his parents...

The Commander yelled for silence after a few seconds of his groveling, and apparently he was sufficiently cowed by the woman, because he fell sniffling but silent.

Tullius cleared his throat and continued. ‘And finally...’ he walked directly up to where Ulfric Stormcloak stood, and tipped his chin up to look the hulking Nord in the eye.

‘Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.’

Ulfric obviously attempted then to make some reply, but it came out as nothing more than a growling behind the linen gags.

‘You started this war,’ Tullius continued. ‘Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace! As ambassador of Cyrodiil and Military Governor to Jarl Elisif, I hereby charge you with murder and high treason!’

Spectators had long since gathered to watch the trial and executions; at Tullius’ words, some of them booed and jeered, and others screamed their approval.

Suddenly, a strange and chilling sound came ringing out from the mountains in front of the town, causing all who’d been making a racket to fall silent. It rolled in strange, metallic waves towards them, and townsfolk and soldiers alike stared at one another dumb-founded—no one present had ever heard such a noise.

The hairs on the back of Merrin’s neck were standing on end as the man who’d collected their names looked at the mountain, and the forest. ‘What _was_ that?’ he asked, sounding nervous.

But Tullius was obviously unconcerned. ‘It was nothing,’ he said tersely. ‘Carry on with it.’

‘Yes, General Tullius,’ the Commander replied enthusiastically. She turned to the priestess of Arkay, standing in sunset-colored robes beside the headsman. ‘Give them their last rites.’

The priestess stepped obediently forward, and raised her hands up to the sky. At the same moment, the Commander shoved one of the Stormcloaks ahead of the group, and he started walking to the block.

‘As we commend your souls to Aetherius,’ she began in a dreamy voice, ‘blessings of the Eight Divines be upon you—’

‘For the love of Talos,’ he cut in sharply. ‘Shut up. Let’s get this over with.’

It didn’t come as a surprise to many that a Stormcloak soldier would scorn last rites in which his patron god had been deliberately excluded, but the priestess herself seemed terribly offended. She faltered, hands falling jerkily back down to her sides, and she scrunched up her face to peer down her nose at him.

‘As you wish,’ she huffed.

‘Come on,’ he shouted at the Commander. ‘I haven’t got all morning!’

The Commander shoved the Stormcloak soldier down onto his knees at the block, and then put a foot in his back so that he had no choice but to kneel.

He had a shock of red hair, and for a split second, her mind conjured up a picture of her father at the wooden block. And then she shoved back against the thought with all her strength, and the man’s face turned back into a stranger’s.

She didn’t want to see what came next; what was happening wasn’t right. It was one thing to die fighting for what you believed in—it was another thing entirely to be executed for it.

Mercifully, he turned his face from the crowd, but Merrin closed her eyes anyway.

‘My ancestors are smiling at _me_ , Imperials,’ she heard him say. ‘Can you say the same?’

A second later she heard the axe come down with a sickening thud, and the collective gasp as the crowd drew in breath. Somebody burst into tears.

‘You Imperial bastards!’ A woman cried.

‘Justice!’

‘Death to the Stormcloaks!’

Then Ralof spoke softly. ‘As fearless in death as he was in life.’

She forced herself to open her eyes. Imperial soldiers were dragging away the body. The head was still sitting in the block’s catching basket.

For the first time since she’d been captured, she couldn’t push down her fear or desperation.

When the Commander levelled a finger at her, her heart started thundering against her ribs.

‘This one next!’

Before anybody could make another move, however, the same strange and horrible sound came rolling down the mountains again—this time at a much closer range. People in the crowd shuffled uncomfortably and muttered to one another; what in the world was that noise?

‘There it is again,’ said the list maker, sounding earnestly worried now. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘I _said_ , next prisoner,’ the Commander snapped.

‘It was good to know you, Hakonsdotter.’ From behind her, Ralof’s voice entered her ear in a whisper, and she nodded to him without turning around. She lurched forward then on watery legs. It occurred to her that she should pray, but she couldn’t figure which gods to pray to. She had the feeling that they weren’t listening, anyway.

No weapons at her disposal. No way to free her hands. No escape route. No way to evade the archers. Surrounded on all sides by people who wanted her dead.

It sank in for the first time for Merrin that she might not be escaping Helgen alive, and as it did, as she arrived at the block, her surroundings disappeared. She stopped seeing the glint of the headsman’s axe, the grimy faces of the other prisoners, the glittering eyes of the townspeople, and the terrified fascination of Dalan Dufont.

As the Commander shoved her to her knees, she was staring not at the stone tower in front of her or the blue sky above, but inward, at the faces of her parents.

Her father, so dear to her, with his fiery red hair and his twinkling blue eyes, hammer in hand as he smiled and beckoned to her. And her mother, much hazier, looking much more like she did; olive skin and a broad smile, long dark hair falling over her shoulders as her brown eyes danced and she reached for her.

She barely felt the booted foot in her back, pushing her down. Didn’t react to her face connecting with the hot, irony puddle of the Stormcloak’s blood.

Soon she’d be with people she’d been missing for a very long time, and she could think of worse fates than that.

She closed her eyes for what she figured would be the last time.

It was then that they heard the booming roar.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was such an impossibly loud sound that every muscle in Merrin’s body tensed and her eyes came flying open, frantically searching the tower and the forest and the sky in her view. She must have just missed something truly horrifying, because suddenly Tullius was no longer stoic.

‘What in _Oblivion_ was _that_?’ he yelled.

‘Sentries.’ There was a tremor in the Commander’s voice all of a sudden. ‘What do you see?’

‘It’s in the clouds,’ one of the sentries shouted back helplessly.

But it didn’t stay hidden in the clouds very long. From directly above Merrin she heard the great flapping of what turned out to be massive wings, and then all at once a monster landed on the top of the Keep’s nearest tower.

She gasped. The creature perched above her was massive. It dug long, ebony claws into the old mortar and stone as it folded wings as black as night against a hard, scaly body so darkly iridescent that it shimmered purple in the sunlight. It stretched out a long neck to look down at the astonished and petrified crowds, and she saw that its eyes were glowing crimson.

She sucked in another astonished breath. Her father had read her stories, and...this thing looked just like a—

‘ _Dragon!’_ The terrified voice of a female Stormcloak rang out over the stunned silent gathering, and Merrin’s thoughts were finished for her.

That settled it. As soon as that Stormcloak gave voice to the fears of several people in the crowd, Tullius raised a hand and cued the trembling archers. ‘Fire at will,’ he shouted.

But the dragon was faster than any of them. Up until that moment it had been staring intently at the crowds, but now it stared straight at Merrin, the ruby red coals of its glowing eyes burning directly into hers. And then, without ceremony, it turned its huge head ever so slightly to the side and released a gout of flame that shot three feet to her left and killed the headsman instantly.

Several people screamed, and the first of the archers fired. Their arrows bounced ineffectually off of the shimmering midnight scales...and then the dragon Shouted.

A terrible wave of thundering shock that made every hair on Merrin’s body stand on end came rippling from the dragon’s maw, and the archers were blasted several yards back. One of them broke his neck, and crumpled into a still heap. Then the dragon took off with a lurch, wings coming unfurled like oily black sails, and went swooping back into the air with another mighty roar.

In that instant, chaos erupted.

People started to scream and yell, and took off running in all directions—somebody leaped right over her where she was kneeling and kept on sprinting into the woods. The Commander started belting out orders to her and Tullius’ troops, the sound of her voice nearly drowned out by the dragon releasing another burst of flame, and then the telltale wooshing crackle of those flames taking root. Somewhere, a baby let out a keening wail, and then there was a splintering shriek as something wooden collapsed to the ground. Behind her, Tullius bellowed.

‘Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!’

And the people around her scattered.

For a moment, she was petrified by her sheer disbelief. But then she yanked sharply on her focus, and pulled herself back together.

Evidently, the Imperials had forgotten about separating her head from her shoulders, and now was her chance to escape. She was about to push herself to her feet, when she felt herself being dragged to them.

It was Ralof, his blue eyes wild and his bindings already cut. ‘Come on, Merrin,’ he yelled. ‘Let’s go! The gods won’t give us another chance!’

She didn’t need to be told twice, and she was hot on his heels as he took off running across the courtyard. Above them, the sky was swirling and turning a murky, unnatural red, and when she looked behind her she saw that several of the town’s buildings were on fire. The dragon had been busy.

‘Come on, into the Keep! Hurry, hurry!’

Ralof had led her to a second stone tower, and when he shoved open the timbered oak door, she quickly followed him through it. He slammed it behind her, and the sounds of the battle outside infinitesimally dimmed, but a second later something crashed against the door, splintering the wood and making them all jump.

When nothing came barrelling through the door, he rounded on someone to their left.

‘A dragon,’ he gasped. ‘A real live dragon! Jarl Ulfric, could the legends be true?!’

And when she turned her head, she saw that Ulfric _was_ in the room with them. He stood tall and broad, with his gags removed and his bindings cut, and as he looked over at Ralof he looked nothing short of regal.

‘ _Legends_ don’t burn down villages, Ralof.’ His voice was husky and deeply timbered, and it had a quality to it that pricked her with annoyance—something she couldn’t quite place.

‘What should we do, then? Where do we go?’ But at the moment, she had no interest in the two men’s conversation, and instead she took in her surroundings.

The room they stood in was standard for a turret in a Keep. Stone from floor to ceiling, and round, with a curving staircase along the far wall. What captured her attention was the fourth person in the room.

A terribly wounded Stormcloak woman lay gasping on the floor. She was moaning quietly and clutching her abdomen, and her eyes were shiny and glazed. Merrin could see immediately that she’d lost a lot of blood, and her skin was waxen white.

Anger surged in her gut for the Jarl of Windhelm; how long had he been hiding in here, watching this woman suffer? She turned her head to stare at them, and saw that Ulfric had started speeching, oblivious to the woman in front of her. And Ralof was no better; he stood listening raptly to every word, and noticed nothing of what lay in front of him.

_Idiots._ Not wanting to waste another second, she clambered down awkwardly to kneel on the floor.

‘I have healing magic,’ she said to the woman, trying to make her voice gentle. ‘I’m going to help you now.’

The soldier only gurgled and moaned.

She had to bite back a curse when she went to use her hands and remembered that they were still bound behind her, and she fell awkwardly onto her backside before scooting up to the woman, back first. She craned her head back over her shoulder to see what she was doing, and pushed the wounded woman’s hands out of her way.

She had some sort of deep gash, and Merrin couldn’t figure where or how she’d gotten it in the chaos of the dragon attack. She placed her hands on the woman’s skin and cast Healing Hands, and started to let the magic flow through her.

It was a strong spell, and it worked quickly; the bleeding stopped, internal damage was mended, and skin knit back together, all at a rate that would’ve been alarming to most anybody. Merrin pulled her hands away, and shuffled to turn around.

A bit of color had returned to the woman’s face as she healed, and now she met Merrin’s eyes, looking astonished. She moved her hands frantically over the smooth, unblemished abdomen that had moments before housed a seeping gash.

‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ she reminded the woman. ‘But at least now you stand a chance at surviving long enough to escape.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ the Stormcloak stammered.

‘Thank me by getting out of Helgen alive.’

A moment later she felt herself being tugged to her feet yet again, and Ralof’s voice by her ear. ‘Come on, it’s time to move! We have to get out of here!’

The men had obviously come up with some kind of plan while she’d been occupied, because he ushered her up the stairs, with the others not far behind. As she neared the top she saw another red-headed Stormcloak, trying to pick a locked door.

‘There’re proper weapons to fight with in here,’ he shouted. ‘I know it! As soon as I get this open, we can—’

She was mere steps from the top when the wall to her right exploded. Rubble went slamming into the man at the door, pinning him painfully, and before anyone could twitch a muscle, the head of the dragon came through the hole and into the tower. It peered with cruel crimson eyes at the man trapped in the rocks, and then it opened its mouth and roasted him alive.

‘Jarn! Noo!’

Ralof’s yell attracted the dragon’s attention, and it did its best to kill more of them by sending another gout of flame down the stairs that they barely managed to avoid. Then it released the building and left as quickly as it had come, returning its attention to the town at large.

The smell of burnt flesh hit her nose, and she gagged. Ralof led her to the edge of the smoking, gaping hole, cursing as they stepped over chunks of rock.

‘See that inn over there? The hole in the roof? You’re going to have to jump!’

Merrin looked at Ralof like he’d sprouted another head. ‘Are you crazy?’ she shouted. ‘That’s a twenty foot fall, at least! I’ll break my legs!’

‘The door is blocked,’ he shouted back at her. ‘It’s your only chance! Jump through the hole, run through the inn, make your way outside from there! We’ll join you when we can!’

‘But you haven’t even cut my binds!’

‘There’s no time! Go, now, Merrin! Talos guide you!’

It was absolutely crazy, but every second she lingered was a second wasted, another second towards sealing her fate. She took a deep breath as she backed up several paces, and then ran full speed at the hole in the wall. At the edge she leaped with all her strength.

Her heart was hammering madly as she flew through the air. The fall was more like thirty feet, and as the roof of the inn rushed up to meet her, she was sure she was about to die painfully. But she didn’t; she passed through a hole in the thatched roof that was still burning at the edges, and landed hard on the wooden planked floor inside. The shock of the landing reverberated up her legs, and her joints and muscles screamed in protest. She stumbled and fell, and had to struggle back to her feet, breathing hard.

The building was on fire, the air thick with smoke, and she choked on the fumes as she started to run, dropping through a hole in the floor to the ground level, and then running through the broken door.

Outside, Helgen was nothing short of apocalyptic.

The sky was a swirling red and brown mass, and fiery comets were hurtling from the otherworldly storm to crash down onto the village below, crushing houses, killing people, spreading the path of the all-consuming fire. The dragon had called down actual brimstone.

She ran forward amidst the utter chaos, no real plan in mind, and moaned when she saw that the carts that might’ve held her gear had long ago caught fire, the horses either running free or lying dead, still hitched to the carts. She changed course abruptly, cursing as she went, and veered to her right. Her current priority was to free her hands.

She hadn’t run far when she came to the smouldering ruins of another house. There were two men crouching behind the wall nearest her, and she froze when she recognized one of them as the man she’d spat on. Would he try to apprehend her again?

But neither man had noticed her. The list-maker was beckoning, and calling out to someone.

‘Haming, you need to get over here now!’

She looked over his shoulder from where she stood, and easily recognized the little boy who’d wanted to watch the procession go by. His tunic was torn now, and his face streaked with soot. His father had fallen, badly wounded, and the boy was trying fruitlessly to drag him to safety.

‘There’s no time, Haming!’ The man sounded desperate. ‘It’s coming. Leave me!’

Merrin looked up and saw that the boy’s father was right. The dragon was gliding in an arc towards them, and would be on them any second now.

‘Listen to your pa, boy!’ The older man behind the house called out.

‘But, pa!’

‘ _Go!_ ’

The dragon landed in front of them then, and the boy seemed to realize that his choices were move or die, because he let go of his father and sprinted towards them, leaping into the list-maker’s waiting arms and getting pulled behind the safety of the wall in the same moment that the scaled beast blasted his father—and the whole street behind him—with spewing flame. And then he flew off with a roar that sounded eerily like laughter.

'Gods, no! Torolf!' But it was too late.

The young boy sobbed in the Nord Imperial’s arms. It was then that the man spun around, face taut with anguish, and finally noticed her. He stared at her hard for one full second, and then called out to her.

‘Still alive, kinsman? Stick with me if you want to stay that way.’ He slid the boy out of his arms and down to the ground, and ushered him over to the older Imperial. Then he drew his sword and held it at his side.

‘Gunnar, take care of the boy! I need to find General Tullius and join the defense.’

The older man nodded, looking grave. ‘Gods guide you, Hadvar.’ He took the boy’s hand, and drew his own sword.

The man who was apparently named Hadvar looked back at her then, and gestured with his free hand. ‘Let’s go!’

She had no interest in joining any defense. But she couldn’t just stay where she was, so she followed.

They ran down the main street of the village, smouldering and in ruins, past the dead body of Haming’s father. They rounded a corner and ran down an alley comprising of a stone wall and a collapsing building, when suddenly Hadvar threw a hand out to stop her, staring at the sky.

‘Stay close to the wall,’ he shouted.

So she crouched as he did, and huddled to the hot stone. A second later there was a mighty crunch as the dragon landed on the top of the very wall at their backs, digging its cruel talons into the stone. It surveyed the scene in front of it, but failed to notice them. Maw opening, it released a gout of hair-raising flame that scattered the people who’d been fighting in front of them, and then it flew off with a whistling hiss.

They took off at a run again, weaving through the remains of a house so destroyed it wasn’t much more than a frame. They passed a wounded man sitting down in the street, calling out for the soldiers beside him to tell his family that he’d fought the dragon bravely.

From the looks of him, Hadvar was realizing quickly that there _was_ no organized defense to join. General Tullius was nowhere in sight, and his soldiers were scattered, fighting and fleeing in equal numbers.

He came to a halt and looked back at her, teeth gritted.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked. Panic was tightening her chest, her head was throbbing with pain, and the smell of the charred dead was nearly making her sick.

‘It looks like it’s just you and me. Come on!’

They hurtled around yet another corner, both gasping for air through the fiery fumes, and passed through a stone archway in the wall.

The dragon was nearby to their left, great wings beating as it hovered in place and surveyed the wreckage; suddenly it opened its mouth, and a terrible language she’d never heard rumbled from the depths of its chest. The monster was talking.

‘ _Zu’u nis dir, pahlok joor!’_

The words struck a chord somewhere deep inside of her, but she couldn’t say why. They were meaningless, and yet...

Suddenly a figure emerged from some rubble farther up the road, and as they approached, she saw that it was Ralof. In another moment, the three of them were face to face.

‘Ralof, you damned traitor!’ Hadvar snarled. ‘Out of my way!’

Ralof was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his expression was defiant as he looked at the other man. ‘We’re escaping, Hadvar. You’re not stopping us this time!’

_So they knew each other already?_

Ralof turned to her. ‘Come on, Merrin, we’re leaving! You can come with us!’

‘Oh no,’ Hadvar cut in. ‘You can’t trust this backstabber. Come with me, and we’ll make it out together.’

The men glared at each other, and for a moment Merrin was torn.

Hadvar was an Imperial soldier who had just participated, however indirectly, in her near execution. But Ralof had directed her to jump out of a burning building without so much as freeing her hands, and had called it 'safety'. Ralof had stood and ignored a dying comrade while he listened to Ulfric conjecture...Hadvar had endeavoured to save a child. In the end, she turned to him.

‘I’m going to stay with Hadvar,’ she announced.

Ralof cursed. ‘Fine then, good luck to you.’ He met Hadvar’s eyes, and there was true dislike burning there. ‘I hope that dragon takes all you Imperial bastards to Sovngarde!’

He took off at a run, two other Stormcloaks flanking him, and Hadvar turned to her.

‘C’mon,’ he shouted. ‘Into the Keep! We’ve got no time to lose!’

 

 

The room they ran into was empty save for them, and Hadvar let out a ragged sigh. ‘Looks like we’re the only ones who’ve made it inside.’

He turned to look at her then, and they gave each other a serious once-over. Merrin knew she must’ve looked like something out of a nightmare. Then he looked at her arms drawn behind her back, and started guiltily.

‘Oh, by the Eight. You poor woman. Let me see if I can cut you loose.’

_Finally!_ Her feelings toward the Imperial soldier warmed considerably as he drew a dagger from his belt and freed her hands from their dingy ropes. Immediately, she started rubbing the feeling back into her tingling wrists.

‘It’s a wonder you made it this far with your hands tied like that. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.’ He sounded genuinely apologetic, and she gave him a small smile.

‘It’s good enough that I’m finally untied.’

He straightened up and squared his shoulders. ‘We’d better keep moving.’

‘What do you suggest?’

He gestured to the room around them. ‘Let’s take a look around this room. I’ve been to Helgen Keep many times before. If we’re going to find you some gear to wear, it’ll most likely be from here. See what you can find, quickly.’ Suddenly, he winced. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can find something for these burns.’

It was then that she noticed for the first time that his left hand and forearm were badly burned, skin broken and glistening. She shook her head at him.

‘You don’t need to find anything. I can heal us both.’

With her hands free, she made short work of his injuries, moving her glowing palms over his grisly burns until the skin was pink and healed over. While he stammered his thanks, she pressed a palm to the side of her head where the rock had connected, and the wonderful warmth of the restorative magic battled her vicious headache until it was gone. Blinking, she let her hand drop, and then she looked up at him.

‘I couldn’t have gone much further without healing, anyway. _Now_ we can look for some gear.’

With the two of them looking, it wasn’t long before they had some luck; this room was clearly a barrack of some sort, with torches flickering in sconces on walls lined with used-looking beds, and chests at the feet that were full of armor and small weapons. On her third try, Merrin found some Imperial leather armor that had clearly belonged to another woman, and she pulled it on over her underclothes and buckled up the sides just as Hadvar discovered a sword she could use. It was far from a perfect fit, and impeded the range of her sword arm some. But it would definitely do. After sheathing the sword in a scabbard at her hip, they took off through the opposite door.

‘Do you know the way?’

‘I’m pretty sure I do. Follow me.’ He shuddered. ‘That thing is still out there somewhere.’

They ran down a long flagstone corridor, turning several corners, stopping once to pull the chain to lift a portcullis door that blocked their path.

Suddenly, they heard voices up ahead.

‘We need to get _moving_ , Petra,’ a male voice shouted. ‘That dragon is tearing up the entire Keep!’

‘Just give me...a minute,’ a woman answered, sounding winded. ‘I’m out of breath.’

They pressed themselves against the stone wall, and Hadvar turned to meet her eyes.

‘Stormcloaks,’ he whispered. ‘Come on. Maybe we can reason with them.’

It impressed her that he wasn’t eager to spill enemy blood. But she said nothing, and only crept alongside him.

As it happened, the Stormcloaks were not willing to be reasoned with. Hadvar had entered the room with his weapon sheathed and his hands up and open, calling to them that they meant no harm. But Ulfric’s soldiers had attacked anyway.

Merrin’s stomach had churned as she’d finally brought her sword down into the male soldier’s neck; they’d been prisoners together, and she had no desire to fight them.

After both Stormcloaks had fallen, Hadvar turned to her with a similar look of regret twisting his features.

‘I wish they’d have listened.’

‘Me too.’

They passed through a heavy wooden door on the other end of the room and continued on their way.

They were running down an identical stone corridor ( _how on earth was he keeping them straight?)_ when they heard the dragon shriek outside, and a section of the ceiling came crashing down in front of them in a deafening cascade.

‘Damn!’ Hadvar coughed on the clouds of billowing rock dust. ‘That dragon doesn’t give up easy. Come on!’

They were forced to detour through one of the side rooms, and found more hostile Stormcloaks inside that they had to fight their way through. From one of these fallen men, Merrin took a longbow and a quiver of iron arrows, and slung both onto her back.

There were health and stamina potions in the storeroom, and they threw them in a sack before they kept on going.

They were starting to head deeper down into the bowels of the Keep, and as they descended a long staircase, Hadvar spoke again.

‘The torture rooms are dead ahead. Gods, I wish we didn’t need these.’

‘Then why participate at all?’ she asked sourly.

‘I don’t. There’s no honor in torturing your fellow man. We’re coming down here for a reason. If there’s a back entrance, the chamber overseer will know about it.’

But a moment later it was obvious to them that the overseer had problems of his own.

They were met with the sounds of battle on the stairs, and upon bursting through the door they saw two men in Imperial armor fighting a group of several Stormcloaks. One was built like an ox and wielding a hammer, and the other, a wizened old man in a deep black cowl, had electricity flying from his fingertips.

Without hesitation, they flew into the fray.

When the last Stormcloak fell dead to the floor, the overseer rounded on the two of them.

‘What in Oblivion is going _on_ up there?’ he snapped. ‘Where did these rebels come from? How did they get all the way down here without being apprehended? Is nobody doing their _job_ in this blasted Keep?’

He stopped then to actually look at them, and took in the gory state of Merrin’s face, the blood splattered on her armor. ‘And what in the name of the Eight Divines happened to _you_?’

‘Do you even know what’s happening up there?’ Hadvar shouted. ‘A _dragon_ is attacking Helgen!’

The overseer scoffed. ‘A dragon. Don’t waste my time with nonsense, boy.’

Hadvar clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘It’s not nonsense. If we don’t get out of here, the Keep will come down on all of our heads!’

But the older man only sneered. ‘There hasn’t been a dragon in Skyrim for a thousand years. I should report you for wasting my time.’

‘Fine, then.’ Merrin turned quickly to look at Hadvar. ‘If he doesn’t want to listen, we’ll leave him behind. We can find the way out ourselves.’

Hadvar blew out a gust of air, nodded his agreement, and the two of them turned to go.

‘Wait!’

It was the younger, more muscular torturer. He was clearly more willing to listen than his supervisor, and his eyes were round as saucers as he ran up to them.

‘Forget the old man. I’m coming with you!’

They scoured the room quickly for supplies. When Merrin grabbed a knapsack sitting on a stool, the overseer called out to her, voice dripping with bitter disdain.

‘Sure, sure. Take _all_ of my things, please!’

They slid their potions into the knapsack and were about to go, when they noticed a dead mage laying on the floor of a locked metal cage.

‘Don’t bother,’ the overseer drawled, a smugness in his voice that made Merrin shudder. ‘Lost the key to that cage ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for _weeks_.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Hadvar growled, shoving some lock picks into her hand. ‘See if you can get the door open, and grab as much as you can. We’ll need it.’

A minute later she was sliding a potion of magicka and a spellbook into the rucksack as well, and then she handed it back to him.

‘Let’s go.’

The three of them ran past the detestable old man, and as they did he called out to them in a jeering voice.

‘You won’t find a way out, heading _that_ way!’

They ignored him, and ran ahead.

 

 

It hadn’t been long before things got worse. A jagged hole in the wall likely caused by the dragon had led them into a vast room in the lowest level of the Keep. It had been crawling with Stormcloaks that attacked them on sight, and the younger Torturer ended up falling in the battle. Merrin had only just dispatched one attacker when she saw Hadvar getting snuck up on by another with a bow. He was preoccupied with a man bellowing and swinging a greatsword, and if she hadn’t managed to nock an arrow and loose it into the rebel’s back before the Stormcloak had lined up her shot, Hadvar would likely have died. The woman’s strangled scream of surprise alerted Hadvar to her presence, and from there he quickly finished her off. She loosed another arrow that found his original opponent’s eye, and the fight was decidedly over.

‘You saved my life.’ He sounded astonished.

‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s hope I don’t have to save it again.’

The two of them had only lingered long enough for Merrin to grab arrows from the quivers of corpses, and then they’d plunged ahead.

They’d wandered through a system of earthen tunnels, hitting a number of dead ends that made her gnash her teeth in frustration as icy water soaked her too-large boots and numbed her aching feet.

And then a second cave-in had very nearly claimed her life. If Hadvar hadn’t seen the ceiling going behind them and grabbed her arm to yank her forward, she would’ve been crushed for sure. They’d stumbled forward and hit the dirt, hands coming up to protect their heads as jagged chunks of rock piled up just behind them, and both sustained fresh scrapes to their faces when they met the rocky ground.

After the collapse had stilled, they just laid there for a moment, breathing hard, bleeding afresh. Merrin was the one to break the silence.

‘I guess that makes us even, now.’

He gave a hooting laugh that surprised her. ‘If things continue like this, we won’t be able to keep score.’

Then he reached over and clapped her on the back, before he rolled stiffly to his feet and helped her to hers. ‘Come on. I can’t wait to get out of this gods forsaken cave.’

She agreed wholeheartedly, and they trekked on, doubly cautious.

Their caution was warranted; after a couple more useless dead ends, they stumbled into a den of Frostbite spiders that were none too pleased to see them there. Ensuring that you didn’t take poison directly to the face was hard, when every muscle in your body was tight and aching.

‘What _next_?’ he grumbled as he wiped his blade clean on some ferns. ‘Giant snakes?’

‘Don’t even say those two words together,’ she groaned. She’d always hated snakes.

‘Sorry, sorry.’

They followed the trail of a coursing underground river, the logic being that it had to let out somewhere, and shared a stamina potion while they walked. Merrin sighed gratefully as some of the tension eased from her muscles, and her tired body received a stirring of energy.

‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Better.’

He nodded, stretching his neck to one side until it cracked before shaking his shoulders loose. ‘We’d better conserve them, though. When we get out of here, we can—’

‘Shh!!’

Merrin had stopped dead in her tracks. She grabbed him by the arm and held a finger to her lips, her eyes speaking to his urgently.

‘Bear,’ she mouthed, and he grimaced.

She turned him around, and pointed. ‘See her?’ she breathed. ‘Up there.’

There was indeed a bear; shaggy, black and huge, it lay fifty paces ahead of them, curled up among some ferns in an alcove of the rocky wall. As far as either could tell, it was sleeping.

‘What do you want to do?’ he whispered back.

She thought for a moment. She could try to take a shot with her bow, but she was far from feeling lucky and if it wasn’t a kill shot, they were in for a messy fight. They were both tired, and an enraged bear was not something she wanted to tangle with just then...

‘Let’s try to sneak around.’

He nodded, and let her take the lead.

She’d done her fair share of sneaking around in her work, and she was comfortably light on her feet. This was clearly the bear’s den, and she was careful to give it a wide berth, pulling off her ill-fitting boots so that she could trust her tread. As she crept along, she pointed out every rock that might clatter or small bone that could snap underfoot, so he could carefully avoid them.

They were close to soundless, and the bear never stirred.

When she was sure that they were far enough away, she straightened up, and Hadvar followed suit.

After rounding another corner, they saw daylight streaming through an opening in the wall, and Merrin’s heart jumped into her throat.

‘This looks like the way out.’ Hadvar’s voice cracked with relief. ‘I was starting to wonder if we’d ever make it.’

‘It feels like we’ve been in here for ages,’ she groaned.

‘Well, no more.’ They’d reached the hole. It was several feet up and only a few feet wide—probably not the bear’s main entrance. But at this point, she’d have tried to shove herself through a pinhole.

Hadvar threw their rucksack out ahead of him, and hoisted himself up and out of the cave. Then a moment later he reached a hand down for her.

She grabbed that hand, and let it pull her into the sun.

 

 

Despite it being well into the afternoon, the sun dazzled her eyes after so long in the cave. She went to take her first step, but before she could, he’d thrown his arm in front of her chest.

‘Wait!’

She saw the shadow, and heard the flapping of wings. The dragon crested over their heads, and her heart stopped dead in her chest. Had it seen them? It either hadn’t noticed them or didn’t care enough to kill them, because it let out one last shrieking roar and then took off, soaring high into the sky until it disappeared from view.

He relaxed his arm, and looked over at her. ‘Looks like he’s gone for good this time.’

She nodded. And then the relief proved too much on top of everything else, and she leaned quickly away from him to be badly sick.

He held onto one of her arms until the wracking heaves settled, and smiled sympathetically when she looked around at him, her gaze both wretched and guarded.

‘Hey, I’m not judging.’ He held up his other hand. ‘I’ve been there before.’

‘I need...come on.’

Without looking back to make sure he was following, she staggered on legs made of jelly to where she could hear a nearby stream. She fell to her knees in front of the water, and made a cup with her hands to bring some to her mouth, swishing away the vile taste before it could make her sick again.

Then she leaned forward and dunked her entire face in the icy water, using her hands to scrub away the layers of blood, soot and grime. When her face felt clean, she moved on to her arms, scrubbing them with cold water until her real skin emerged.

Her hair was loose around her and a sopping mess from the stream. She wrung it out as best she could before she gathered it behind her and brought her face back to the water, drinking deeply until she was satisfied.

Hadvar _had_ followed her, and waited patiently; when she turned around, he nodded understanding, and then knelt to take a drink himself.

It was as he was pulling himself to his feet beside her that she suddenly realized her bladder was bursting.

‘If I don’t find a tree, I’m going to have an accident.’

‘Aye. I second you on that, too.’

They walked separately into the woods, and as soon as she was free from her armor, she relieved herself. Hadvar was already finished and waiting for her when she made her way back to the stream.

‘So.’ He looked her up and down, and although he looked haggard and tired, there was warmth in his gaze. ‘If I recall rightly, your name is Merrin.’

She nodded, and he held out a hand to shake. ‘I think it’s time that we make a proper acquaintance—having saved each other’s lives, and all. I’m Hadvar.’

It all seemed surreal, and she nearly laughed as she took his hand and shook it. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Hadvar.’ Then she grew sheepish, remembering how they’d _actually_ met. ‘I’m sorry I spit on you.’

A tired grin broke over his face, and he shook his head at her. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’d have spit on me too, if I were you.’ Something about the smile made her stomach jump, and she turned away from him, feeling flustered.

He picked up the rucksack with their things inside, and slid it firmly onto his back. When he looked at her again, his gaze was serious.

‘The dragon may be gone, but we shouldn’t stick around and wait for him to come back.’

‘So, you mean for us to travel together?’ More stomach jumping. ‘Where do you suggest we go?’

‘I wouldn’t leave you out here alone in the woods, after something like what just happened.’ The mere thought seemed to offend him, and he shook his head before he continued.

‘The closest town from here is Riverwood, and my uncle’s the blacksmith there. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help us, and the journey isn’t far.’

They set off walking through the woods. Merrin had been to Riverwood more than once in her youth, and it relieved her to be going somewhere she was already somewhat familiar with.

But it wasn’t long before the adrenaline started to really fade from their systems, and the reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

‘A dragon,’ Hadvar said weakly, seeming dazed. ‘By the gods. The first in a thousand years...’

‘I know how you feel,’ she replied honestly. ‘I saw it with my own eyes, and still hardly believe it.’

‘And all those _people_ ,’ he lamented darkly. ‘We weren’t prepared for anything like this. We don’t even know if anyone else escaped Helgen alive. For all we know, we could be the only ones.’

She shook her head fiercely. ‘You can’t think that way. We made it out—I’m sure lots of others did, too.’

‘I should’ve done more to help people escape. I shouldn’t have run. I should’ve—’

‘Hey.’ She stopped in her tracks, and pulled on his arm to stop him, too. She looked him directly in the eye, and saw raw sorrow there.

‘You did the best that you could. That’s all anyone can hope for. And you did _plenty_ to help people escape.’ She squeezed his arm in a comforting gesture. ‘I saw the way you saved that boy. He wouldn’t have stood a chance if you hadn’t intervened. And you saved me, too. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead under a pile of rubble right now. Might not have even made it to the rubble.’

He was silent for several moments at her words, and his dark eyes were brooding as he looked at her. He thanked her, seemingly deep in thought, and then suggested that they continue on.

The silence stretched, and as they walked it became less heavy, and more companionable. They met no one and nothing on their forested path, and if she could’ve ignored what they’d just been through, she would’ve found peace and beauty in their surroundings. Their path intercepted one of the Emperor’s roads, and they trekked over the cobbles without remark.

They’d been walking for a good stretch when he stopped her, and pointed to something in the distance for her to see.

‘You see that ruin up there? Bleakfalls Barrow.’

She stared at where he pointed, and saw the ruins nestled amongst the trees, high on the side of a mountain. Stormy grey and crumbling, they jutted high into the sky in magnificent arches, foreboding and forgotten. Merrin had seen her fair share of Barrows, and over the last four years, she’d entered what she considered _more_ than her fair share on jobs. She was no stranger to what lurked within, and she repressed a shiver as her mind conjured pictures of glowing blue eyes.

As if reading her thoughts, Hadvar continued. ‘When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night...that sort of thing.’ He shuddered, and then laughed at himself as he looked down at her. ‘I admit, I still don’t like the look of it.’

‘Any man who claims not to be bothered by the draugr is lying through his teeth.’ They started walking again, and she tilted her head as she looked at him. ‘You say you lived in Riverwood as a boy. Did your uncle raise you, then?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. My ma and da died when I was ten, and I went to live with him and my aunt in the village after that. They’re the ones who raised me.’ When he spoke of his family, respect shone in his voice, and it tugged at her heartstrings a bit.

‘And what of them, do they have any other children?’

He grinned. ‘Oh, yes. Twelve years back, my aunt fell unexpectedly into the family way. It’d been just the three of us until then, and I’d already left home and joined the Legion. Now I have a little cousin running around. A girl named Dorthe.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s too sassy for her own good, a proper little monster. You’ll be meeting her soon enough, I’d wager.’

She was about to reply when he pointed ahead again, and when he spoke he sounded excited.

‘Oh! This’ll be an opportunity for you, I think. Look ahead, down the hill—have you ever been to the Guardian Stones?’

‘I haven’t.’ And it was the truth; despite Skyrim being her home, she’d only ever seen a couple of the legendary Stones, and never the three in front of them now. Even though they were making their way towards cover, and despite all they’d been through, Merrin was sorely tempted to inspect them; she’d inherited a love of the mysterious sculptures from her father.

‘Do you think we really have time for this?’ she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

‘I think we can risk it.’

When they stepped onto the raised platform surrounding the stones, she saw that each had a magnificent carving; a cloaked rogue with a dagger, a mage with billowing robes and staff, and a brawny warrior in a pointed helm.

‘You know the legends surrounding the Stones,’ Hadvar said. ‘Each one imbues you with a blessing, and strengthens your skills in a particular area. Our ancestors have been converging at the stones for centuries. These are referred to as the Guardians, because they all aid your offensive skills.’

‘Doesn’t each Stone have a name?’

‘Of course.’ He pointed to the farthest stone, and then at the others as he spoke their names. ‘That’s the Warrior. In the middle is the Mage. This one here is the Thief.’ He eyed her carefully as he stepped aside. ‘All three have the potential to help you. Which is most useful to you?’

She didn’t have to think about it. She stepped up to the Warrior Stone, and placed her hand on the carved orb in the centre. She’d received a Stone’s blessing once before, but it still shocked her as she felt the undeniable surge of energy jolting through her body, warming her, lifting her spirits.

When she steadied herself, Hadvar was smiling at her.

‘Warrior, eh? I knew you shouldn’t have been on that cart the moment I laid eyes on you.’

Her stomach clutched, and she stared with wide eyes. ‘You believe I’m innocent?’ Her feelings towards him warmed even further when he nodded.

‘I do. You were never supposed to be on that cart with those Stormcloaks. It was all a big mistake, as far as I’m concerned. Come on, we should go.’ He beckoned with one hand, and turned to leave.

_Wait, what??_

‘Hang on just a minute.’ She started walking with him again, but some of her earlier anger was coming out of hibernation. ‘If you acknowledge that I shouldn’t have been taken into custody, then why was I nearly executed?’

‘You shouldn’t have been. It was sloppy on the Legion’s part,’ he replied apologetically. ‘If I had to wager a guess, I’d say that it was because of who you were _with_ when you got caught.’

She was trying not to fume. ‘Explain.’

He sighed. ‘We’d captured Ulfric Stormcloak, after years of him running circles around us. Since the start of the war he’s slipped through our fingers, but after that ambush, we finally had him. It was an incredible victory for us, and Ulfric was meant to stand trial in Cyrodiil. But it sounded like some of our men were getting anxious along the way. They feared that Ulfric’s rebels would know he’d been taken, and would set up a counter-ambush during the journey. We were still days from the capital, and I guess Tullius changed his mind—decided a hasty execution would be better in the end. And...you know the rest,’ he finished meekly.

She was silent for several seconds, battling her anger.

‘The burden of chaining a powerful man shouldn’t result in the execution of innocents,’ she said at last. ‘There’s no honor in that. And no justice.’

‘I completely agree with you,’ Hadvar lamented. ‘I’ve followed under General Tullius for as long as he’s been in Skyrim, and he’s proven himself to be a fair man of character. His actions in Helgen were unworthy of him.’

He appeared to be entirely sincere, and after several more moments, she softened.

‘Has Tullius been in the province long?’

He seemed to recognize the olive branch in her words, and looked at her gratefully before he answered.

‘Only a few months. But he’s turned things around for the Empire in this war. He has a brilliant mind for strategy—in fact, he was the one behind us finally capturing Ulfric. He’s brought an outsider’s perspective to the war table, and as a leader he’s solid and fair. A great many soldiers are devoted to him.’

‘And what about you? Are you devoted to Tullius?’

‘I’m devoted to his cause,’ he replied soberly. ‘Most of all, I’m devoted to our land—to Skyrim. And a peaceful life for all of her inhabitants.’

She liked that answer, and walked in silence for several moments as she thought over all that he’d said.

‘If he’s as brilliant as you say he is, then he’ll be busy in the days to come.’

‘That’s true. Especially if that dragon is under Stormcloak control.’

‘What?’ That thought startled her, and made her uneasy. ‘You really think that’s a possibility?’

He shook his head. ‘We’d be foolish to discount it. If Stormcloaks discovered a sleeping dragon, and found some way to wake it up and control it...don’t you think it a bit too unlikely to be a coincidence? The first dragon in a thousand years burns down the small village holding the leader of the rebellion, _just_ as he’s about to be executed?’

‘I...I don’t know.’ She had to admit, the timing _had_ been integral, for her especially. If it hadn’t been for that dragon, she’d be dead.

‘It’s a mystery, to be certain,’ he continued. ‘But one thing, I know for sure. If the rebels _have_ got themselves a dragon, Tullius is the only one who can stop them.’

After another second he looked back to the road ahead.

‘Ah, we’re almost to Riverwood now.’

She looked ahead and saw for herself that he was right. Beyond a stone and wooden archway lay the first houses of a quaint and sleepy village. She could see a few people wandering down the main road, and smoke rising from several chimneys. As she continued toward them, Hadvar spoke up again, sounding cautious.

‘Listen...as far as _I’m_ concerned, you’ve already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed for you, it’s best if you avoid other Imperial soldiers. Things look quiet enough for now, though. You should be safe.’

He looked genuinely concerned for her well-being, and it warmed her.

‘Thank you for believing that I’m innocent. It means a lot to me.’

He looked guilty then, and they both knew why; if the dragon hadn’t attacked Helgen, Hadvar’s beliefs wouldn’t have changed a thing. ‘Of course. Now, come on. Let’s get to my uncle’s.’

They passed through the gateway as the sun was starting to set. Cobblestone houses with thatched roofs and rough-hewn log cabins lined the street, and wildflowers spilled from tiny gardens by their doors. The river burbled and flowed nearby to their right, and amongst the lowing of cattle, birds were starting their evening call.

Riverwood was an ideallyic place.

The first _person_ they heard, though, didn’t sound happy at all.

‘ _Sven_ ,’ an old lady screeched from the shade of her porch. ‘Sven! Confound it, you dung-heap, quit ignorin’ me and get over here, now!’

‘What is it _now,_ mother?’ Her screams were directed at a blond man in a bright yellow tunic with sky blue trim, walking slowly down the road, and his tone indicated long suffering and short patience.

‘A dragon! I saw a dragon!’ The old woman howled, and both Hadvar and Merrin jolted at hearing her words. They looked at one another, and quickened their pace.

‘A dragon? Mother, please.’ Her son scoffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m _not_ being ridiculous! What’s ridiculous is how long it took you to get back from Whiterun! I’ve been waiting to tell you since it happened!’

‘Mother...’

‘It was big as a house, and black as night!—’ The man had reached the porch and was hurrying his mother inside, closing the door behind them, and the two of them sighed with relief, heads bowed low.

‘There’s my uncle. Follow me.’

 

 

When Hadvar’s uncle took in their appearance, all of the color drained from his ruddy face. Apparently the river water hadn’t helped as much as she’d thought.

‘Shor’s bones, boy,’ he gasped. ‘What _happened_ to you? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

Hadvar lifted his hands up, trying to calm him. ‘Shh—Uncle Alvor, please, keep your voice down. I’m fine, but we should go inside to talk.’

‘What’s going on?’ His wide eyes travelled over to her again, and settled this time. ‘And who is this?’

‘She’s a friend,’ Hadvar sighed. ‘Saved my life, as a matter of fact. But we really should get inside the house. I’ll tell you everything there.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Alvor said, looking worried. He wiped his sooty hands off on a ragged apron around his waist and then walked to the front door, grabbing the handle. ‘Come on in, both of you. Sigrid can get you something to drink.’

Hadvar’s family turned out to be very kind and welcoming people. Alvor had called out to his wife when they’d entered, and as soon as the red-haired woman had laid eyes on Hadvar, she’d rushed into his arms.

They were ushered to the kitchen table, and seated closest to the fire. Sigrid rushed to fill two large tankards with mead, and handed one to each of them; Merrin sipped politely at hers, her nerves too frazzled for anything else, but Hadvar ended up draining his between the telling of the tale.

At, first, when Hadvar brought up the dragon, Alvor hadn’t believed him.

‘A dragon...bah! You aren’t drunk, are you boy?’

But Sigrid would have none of it. ‘Husband,’ she’d admonished. ‘Mind your mead and let the poor boy tell his story. You _asked_ to hear it, remember?’

He hadn’t gotten very far in the telling when a little brown-haired girl with gangly limbs came suddenly rushing up the stairs. ‘Hadvar, Hadvar, is it true? Did you really see a dragon?’ she asked, talking so fast she was barely understandable. Her eyes glittered with excitement as she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Was it huge? Did it breathe fire? Oh, tell me, tell me!’

Hadvar chuckled weakly at her misplaced enthusiasm, and Sigrid cut in quickly before he could say anything. ‘Hush now, child, don’t pester your cousin. He’s been through quite enough already. Why don’t you go and play outside with Frodnar? And for pity’s sake, don’t mention any dragons!’

It took her a minute to convince the girl to go outside and play, but Merrin more than understood Sigrid’s feelings. This was no story for a child to hear. When she was finally gone, Sigrid gave them an apologetic smile.

‘That was Dorthe,’ she said to Merrin. ‘A real handful, our little girl.’

She’d already heard about Dorthe on the road, and smiled. ‘No more a handful than I was for _my_ poor da, I’m sure.’

Then they turned their attention back to Hadvar, and she let him take the lead, only speaking up when necessary.

When he’d finished the story, both Alvor and Sigrid were looking somber and fearful. Hadvar looked at them with eyes full of sorrow.

'I know times are hard and I hate to ask, but I was wondering if we could lay up here for a while and recover some before I have to head to Solitude and report back to General Tullius...’ he shook his head. ‘Gods, if he's even still alive, that is.'

Alvor hurriedly insisted that of course, they were staying with him, and at that point he turned to Merrin. She found a key to the house being pushed into her hand, and then he offered her some supplies. The offer touched her—times really _were_ hard—but she accepted hardly anything the kindly smith tried to give her. She’d only escaped Helgen with a few things of value, and she knew very well that she was in dire straits. But she was too proud to really lean on his offer.

Sigrid left the table while Alvor talked to prepare a hot bath in their sitting tub down in the basement, and Hadvar insisted that she be the first to bathe. She stripped gratefully out of her dirty armor and sweaty underclothes and sank into hot, fragrant water that smelled of pine soap and juniper.

The water cleaned her skin while it soothed her battered muscles, and she was able to properly wash her hair, picking the last of the detritus out.

When she was nearly finished in the bath, Sigrid came down and handed her a plain blue dress; she tried to refuse the gesture as too kind, but the woman waved her off. When she emerged upstairs she was wearing the dress, her damp dark hair in a loose braid at her back.

While Hadvar went downstairs and took _his_ bath, Sigrid served up hot bowls of venison stew, and lit candles for them to eat by in the house. Night was falling in earnest outside, and as they ate, Alvor questioned her some more. He wanted to know all sorts of things, including his daughter’s earlier question (‘How big was it, really?’), and Merrin did her best to answer them. When he’d run out of questions, he looked at her seriously.

‘Like I said earlier, any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend of mine, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But I need your help in return. We _all_ do.’ He looked worriedly at his wife. ‘The Jarl needs to know that there’s a dragon on the loose out there. Riverwood is defenseless...we don’t even have a proper wall, and no guards are stationed in the village. Word needs to get to Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can spare, right away. If you would deliver that message, I’d be in your debt.’ Sigrid nodded, and he squeezed her knee as they waited for Merrin’s response.

At first, she hesitated; she’d never actually been to Whiterun, despite her mercenary work. And she didn't feel like venturing out on foot through country she'd never been through to deliver a message, so soon after nearly being killed... _especially_ with next to no gear. But she didn’t want to see the village harmed, and he was right—they were defenseless.

After only a moment, she told him she’d go, and ask Whiterun’s Jarl for assistance. It was the right thing to do, and she was rewarded by their looks of relief.

Hadvar came upstairs a minute later, looking wholly made over in a clean linen tunic and breeches, and sat at the table with them to dig into his own bowl of stew. As he ate and the others lingered at the table, Alvor told her about the amenities in the village and where she would find them, mentioning the inn, the mill, and the general store. She’d been to Riverwood before, but it had been years ago, and she listened intently to his words.

Dorthe came banging through the door shortly after, trailing fireflies and making them all jump; Frodnar’s family had kept her for dinner, and after that she and Frodnar had taken someone—something?—named Stump and played in the nearby woods. Sigrid looked more than alarmed at that part, but she must’ve been trying hard to maintain a sense of normalcy for her daughter, because she smoothed her expression over before she took Dorthe by the hand and told her it was time to get ready for bed.

The little girl whined and complained, but Merrin was on Sigrid’s side; she’d just had one of the most grueling days of her life, and it was catching up with her. Combined with the hot food, warm bath, and tankard full of mead....to say she was tired would’ve been an understatement.

Sigrid must have seen that she was exhausted, because she announced firmly that it was time for their guest to rest.

‘Thank you, Sigrid. You’re too kind. Just hang on.’ She reached a hand out towards Hadvar’s face. ‘I can heal those scrapes, if you want.’

Hadvar seemed surprised that she’d bother, but agreed, and she pulled from her reserves of magicka to make the cuts smattering his face disappear. His family didn’t seem off put by magic, and for a house full of Nords, that was a pleasant surprise. As soon as she was done, she bid him goodnight, and turned back to Sigrid.

‘Where should I sleep?’

The family elected to spend the night on spare bed rolls by the hearth, giving Dorthe's bed to Merrin for the night (Dorthe making a brave attempt at seeming not at all bothered by this development), and their own bed to Hadvar. While Alvor pulled bedrolls from a chest in the corner, Sigrid led Merrin downstairs to where Dorthe slept.

As soon as the other woman left, Merrin let her hair down and crawled between the woolen blankets. She really was exhausted, and could tell that she wasn’t long for the waking world. Above her, Dorthe and Sigrid both climbed into their bedrolls, and soon fell quiet. But the men stayed sitting at the scarred wooden table, talking in low, sometimes urgent voices.

She could still hear them discussing the implications of Stormcloak-controlled dragons when she finally fell asleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter of the story contains explicit sexual content unsuitable to audiences below the age of 16.**

 

She slept deeply, and for much longer than usual. When she finally started awake and went upstairs, she found full sunlight streaming through the thick, wavy glass in the windows, and the house empty—aside from one other person.

Hadvar was face down on the big bed across the room, snoring softly. She found a note scrawled in a feminine, loopy hand on the table, with her name misspelled at the top. It explained that Alvor was outside working the forge for the day, but if she needed help with anything, she could ask him. Sigrid and Dorthe had both gone down the road to help a lady named Hilde with her weaving, as they always did on a Tirdas, but they'd be back by early afternoon. If she was hungry, it said, she'd find breakfast in the pot by the hearth.

She _was_ hungry, but instead of helping herself to breakfast, she found herself watching Hadvar.

She stood several feet away from the large bed that he lay sprawled in, watching his broad, scarred, naked back rise and fall with his breathing. He must have stayed up late into the night with Alvor, talking, and she saw another large tankard that had probably been holding mead last night sitting empty on the bedside table.

Merrin could see half of his face from where she was standing, and noted with interest that it wasn't at all a bad face. For several seconds she stood still there as warmth bloomed in her abdomen, staring at the man who'd helped her escape Helgen, considering her options. And then she walked resolutely across the room and sat down next to him on the bed.

He woke up when she put a hand on his arm, eyeing her blearily, and asked her if she was okay.

‘I’m better than okay.’ She smiled. ‘I slept like a cave bear in hibernation.’

He pulled himself up onto one elbow and used the palm of his free hand to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes, and she watched him as he did. He had kind hazel eyes, and she noted full lips when a huge yawn overtook him. Her blood ran a little hotter.

‘What about you, Hadvar? How did you sleep?’

He chuckled. ‘Pretty decently, when I finally fell into bed. It’s nice to be back in a friendly spot, no?’

‘Definitely,’ she agreed. ‘It was so good of your aunt and uncle to let us stay here like this.’

‘They’re good people.’ The pride and respect were both back in his voice, and she nodded her head in agreement.

‘That’s part of why I agreed to help them last night. Your uncle asked me to go to Whiterun, to tell Jarl Balgruuf about what happened at Helgen, and ask him to post some soldiers in Riverwood so it isn’t just sitting defenseless. I’m going to do it today.’

‘Oh.’ He seemed pleasantly surprised at this news. ‘That was good of you to agree to. Have you been to Whiterun before?’

‘No, never.’

‘Do you want me to come with you? It would be no trouble.’

His words caused another clutch in her lower abdomen, and she smiled. She was confident that she was making the right call.

‘I appreciate the offer, Hadvar. But I know how to handle myself.’

He nodded emphatically. ‘After what I saw yesterday, I can only agree.’

_Time to make my move._

Merrin looked at him seriously now, tucking her tumbling hair behind her ears.

‘Hadvar? I want to..thank you, for all you’ve done for me since we met. And for believing that I’m innocent.’

He looked at her, amused. ‘You’ve already thanked me for all of that.’

She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t the thanks I have in mind.’

And then, with her eyes firmly on his, she leaned down and kissed him right on the mouth.

He seemed shocked at first, but far from unwilling; after a moment she broke the kiss, and sat cross-legged on the bed as she unlaced the sides of Sigrid’s blue dress, and his eyes riveted themselves to her naked body as soon as she pulled it off. ‘Gods,’ he breathed shakily, suddenly fully awake, and she smiled demurely as she threw the quilt over the edge of the bed. He was still in his cotton breeches, and she took hold of them then with both hands.

She worked to pull them over his hips; he was already hard, and his straining erection gave her some trouble before he came springing free with an excited groan, and she eyed him appreciatively. She urged him to sit up straighter against the headboard, and then cupped him boldly with one hand as she dragged his breeches the rest of the way off with the other, leaving him naked in the bed.

Then she kissed a trail up his hard abdominal wall and over his hairy chest, straddling him before she stopped to nip at his collarbone.

‘M..Merrin...’ There was a flush spreading high over his strong cheekbones, and the tone of his voice made her clench with excitement.

‘Do you want me, Hadvar?’

He eyed her as if in a powerful daze. ‘Yes.’

‘Then touch me.’

He obeyed her immediately; Hadvar had clearly known other women, and he grabbed her hips expertly, bringing himself right up to her entrance. Then he moaned in pleasure as he took both of her breasts into his large calloused hands, weighing them and squeezing them before he rolled both nipples between his fingertips, and stared at her to gauge her reaction. She gasped, and it obviously pleased him, because he applied himself with even more enthusiasm.

When he bent forward to take her left breast deep into his mouth, she cried out and fisted both hands in his chestnut hair, holding him there and arching her back as hot need rippled through her. He reached around and let his hands roam her back, igniting her senses even further, and after a while she pulled him away.

‘It’s time,’ she groaned.

‘It is,’ he agreed, voice strained and heavy with desire.

She lowered herself down onto him then, sheathing him in her warmth, and the bliss hit both of them like a solid wall. It had been a while, too long, since Merrin had had anyone, and she rode him fast and hard and without compunction, revelling in the slap of their flesh coming together and his grunts of ecstasy.

For several minutes her pleasure built steadily upwards, her stomach muscles pulling tight across as the sensations mounted, and her own groans levelled with his. She braced her palms on the damp, bunched muscles of his chest, and as she rode him his hands feverishly gripped and wandered her body, making her shiver at the way his callouses scraped her skin. He murmured compliments that she only half absorbed, and she gritted her teeth when he clamped both hands like vices over her ass and used them to encourage her thrust.

She was close then, could feel her climax gathering like a hot wave around her, and every time she rapidly came down on him, he was exactly where she needed him to be.

After another moment she let her head fall back, and with a strangled, animalistic cry, she came. The hot, spastic clenching of her muscular walls dragged him over the edge with her, and his rough hands slid up to her waist, squeezing her there instead in the fervor of his climax, and he moaned long and hard as he emptied into her. No words were said. No words were needed.

Gradually, they stilled. A warm, flowing, easy feeling stretched through Merrin like fine silk, and she let out a long sigh as she slumped forward onto his sweaty chest. One of his hands came up to rest on her back, and for a short while they lay there in companionable silence. She was the first to move, and when she lifted her head to look at him, they exchanged a heavy lidded stare that cracked lazy smiles over both their faces. She leaned forward a bit to kiss him again, his lips soft and yielding now, and tasted a hint of his tongue. The two eyed each other appreciatively for another moment, and then with no further ceremony she disentangled herself, shivering as she felt him come sliding out of her.

He stayed where she left him, half laying and slumped against the headboard, appropriately wrecked over the encounter, and her smile transformed into a grin as she stepped away from the bed.

‘There,’ she said, eyes dancing. ‘Now we’ve said our proper thanks, yeah?’

‘Best thank-you I can remember receiving.’ He sounded a bit breathless, and together with the words he’d said, it pulled a happy laugh from somewhere deep in her gut.

‘I’m happy to hear it.’

She leaned over casually in the nude, not bothering to cover herself as she picked up Sigrid’s dress where she’d dropped it. She folded it neatly before she left it on top of the chest by the bed, and then she looked at him again. He’d brought both arms up and laced his fingers to rest under his head, and looked the picture of satisfaction.

‘Hadvar,’ she said. ‘I think you’d better...’, and smiled mischievously as she gestured that he should put his pants back on.

He blushed then, and seemed suddenly sheepish as he nodded—probably realizing all at once that he’d just had spontaneous sex with a virtual stranger, in his aunt and uncle’s borrowed bed.

She hurried downstairs and quickly cleaned herself up, slipping into the tattered clothes she’d escaped Helgen in, and pulling the scavenged armor on over top. Twice, she fumbled the straps and had to redo the buckles, and eventually she laughed at herself, still feeling giddy. It really _had_ been too long since she’d had a man, and Hadvar had exceeded her expectations.

When she reemerged upstairs, the sword she’d claimed was hanging from its sheath at her waist. Her bow was sitting unstrung on her back, beside the rough hide quiver. And the rucksack they’d taken, meager as it was, was packed and slung over her shoulder.

She looked Hadvar over again, and saw that he’d hastily pulled his breeches back on and made his aunt and uncle’s bed while she’d been downstairs. He wore last night’s linen tunic with the strings left untied, exposing a lot of his chest underneath, and his eyes had a dreamy quality to them as he regarded her.

He gestured to a bowl in front of him at the table and offered her some breakfast, but she only smiled and refused. The time had come for them to go their separate ways, and he rose to see her to the door.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider heading to Solitude after this, and joining the Legion? We’re always looking for capable men and women.’

He sounded sheepish even as he said it, and at the look on her face, he broke out into a crooked smile.

‘I figured as much. It was worth asking, though.’

‘Sure it was.’

It would have been silly for them to merely nod or shake hands again after she had so decisively changed the nature of their acquaintance, so they shared a long embrace. She was suddenly tempted to kiss him again, but she held herself back; when she pulled herself away, he was looking a bit forlorn.

‘Will we be seeing each other again,’ he asked, ‘or is this a real goodbye?’

‘I don’t know, Hadvar,’ she replied honestly, and she grabbed the latch of the door with one hand as the other gripped the strap of her pack. ‘If the Gods mean for us to cross paths again, then there’s no doubting we will.’

He grimaced. ‘I’m more inclined to believe in a man deciding his fate for himself.’

She felt exactly the same way, but didn’t say as much, and with a wistful sort of smile she turned to go.

‘At any rate,’ he continued, his voice softer than before, ‘I’m thankful to the Gods for having met you at all.’

_That_ was when she whirled back around, grabbing two fistfuls of his tunic to yank him towards her, and kissed him again.

 

 

Several minutes later, feeling lightheaded and punch-drunk, she finally emerged from Alvor’s house, and she had to pull herself together quickly as she walked up to the smith himself.

She let him know that she was leaving for Whiterun, to do for him as he’d asked, and thanked him again wholeheartedly for all of his hospitality. He responded by giving her a crinkly eyed smile, and telling her that he looked forward to seeing her in Riverwood again someday. This man’s hand she _did_ shake, and with that, she stepped off the porch and headed down the road.

She didn’t leave the village immediately, but turned instead into the general store, a two-storeyed log cabin called the Riverwood Trader; for all of her polite but insistent refusal to take Alvor’s supplies, she really was in one of the worst financial positions she’d ever been in.

Merrin had never been so presumptuous as to consider herself wildly successful at her career as a hired sword; she’d owned no property since she’d sold her father’s land, and had hardly been swimming in gold. She made enough money to look after all of her needs, and typically some of her wants, too. But there were times that were noticeably leaner than others.

But _never_ before in the four years of her travels had she found herself robbed of every last thing she’d been carrying, forced to scavenge armor to cover herself and shoddy weapons to fight with, without a single septim to her name.

She needed a few provisions, and needed them badly.

When she entered the Trader, she walked in on a heated argument between two Imperials inside that was quickly stifled by her presence. It must’ve been awkward for the man, who introduced himself as ‘Lucan Valerius, owner of the Trader’, because she’d stared at him a mere two seconds before he ducked his head and cleared his throat. ‘You must be wondering what that fight was about,’ he said sheepishly, avoiding her gaze.

‘I wouldn’t want to intrude,’ she replied, and with a huge sigh the other woman in the room picked up her skirts and went flouncing up the stairs.

The man named Lucan explained, still sheepishly, that the woman he’d been arguing with was his younger sister Camilla; she was dissatisfied with his continuing inaction. A fortnight ago, they’d had a break-in at the shop, and while only one thing was taken, it was something of great value—a golden claw relic, the kind of claw said to be used to open the Halls of Stories in ancient Nordic barrows.

‘She wants me to get the claw back, but what does she expect me to do? I’m a merchant for godssake, not a warrior.’

Before she could answer him, he cocked his head to one side, eyeing her afresh.

‘Actually, now that I’m thinking about it... _you_ seem the adventuring type!’

Merrin opened her mouth to head him off. But then he spoke the magic words.

‘Would you be willing to try and get the claw back for us? I have a shipment coming in any day now, and I’d pay you good money as a reward.’

In the end, it seemed that they were both desperate—him for his treasure back, and her for money to live on. She had no other plans beyond seeing the Jarl in Dragonsreach and doing what Alvor had asked, and after a minute’s consideration, she agreed.

Then they got down to business.

She had precious few things to sell him, but with the money he gave her for the stamina potions she’d either scavenged or been given by Alvor, and the spellbook she’d taken off of the dead mage in the torture chamber, she was able to buy herself what she’d need to go to Whiterun; a proper tunic and leggings, a cord of twenty more iron arrows to go with the ones in her quiver, a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a potion of magicka in case she needed to heal herself.

He very considerately allowed her to use the privacy of the upper floor for a few minutes so she could change into her sturdy new clothes and then slip back into her armor. And then, without further ado, she was actually leaving the village.

Both Alvor _and_ Sigrid had given her directions to Whiterun, promising her that she wouldn’t be able to miss the city jutting high into the sky from the surrounding plains. And it was beautiful country that she found herself walking through; the road was gently and continually downhill, and the river was her companion as it rushed along beside her. As she ate some of the bread she’d just bought, she wound her way through an emerald green forest suffused with sunlight and white-tailed deer. The air here was clean and fresh, and she breathed in deeply as she thought about how different the air had been that she’d breathed the day before.

For a while, it was a peaceful journey, full of the chirping of insects and the songs of birds. But she was in Skyrim—before too long, danger presented itself. Several wolves attacked her at a secluded bend in the forest road. She only had to kill one of them before the other two went scattering back into the woods, but the steel sword Hadvar had found for her really needed sharpening; wary after that, she drew her bow instead.

She thought of Hadvar some as she walked alone, her thoughts rosy and satisfied.

He’d ended up being a virtuous and compassionate man, someone she now considered a friend, and she was glad that she’d taken him to bed. She liked him all the better for the fact that he hadn’t been put off by her blatant advances, once she’d decided she wanted him. She’d always been an assertive woman, usually sure of herself, and she’d met—and laid with—men in the past who were threatened by it.

But not Hadvar. When they’d finally broken apart again, his eyes had been glowing with emotion and desire, and when she’d stumbled against the door and finally opened it, he’d made as if to reach for her again, before he stopped himself and let her go. They’d said another goodbye, and that time, both of them had definitely been feeling wistful.

She meant what she’d said in the doorway of Alvor’s house; if she ever met him again, she’d be glad for it.

In the second hour of her journey she saw another group of wolves. These were skulking in some shade by the road some fifty paces ahead of her, and she cautiously crept into some cover as soon as she spotted them. They hadn’t noticed her, and she was able to take one of them down instantly with a well-aimed shot. Reliably, the rest of them scattered.

Soon after that, the scenery changed. The forest thinned dramatically, and the downhill sweep of the terrain got steeper. The river started rushing faster too, churning over some rocky rapids, and she could see salmon leaping in the frothing crests, sunlight sparkling off of their multi-colored scales.

She made it to the bottom of the hill she’d been descending, and the forest dropped away entirely as her view opened up; the ground had levelled out, and spreading out in front of her was the valley of craggy plains she’d been promised, and a walled city in the distance climbing like a vine up the one _true_ peak in the earthen dome.

Merrin had always been the kind to notice beauty wherever she went, and the vista before her took her breath away. She took a moment to simply appreciate it, before she continued down the road.

Despite having her destination in sight now, she decided to keep her bow strung and ready in her hand as she walked briskly over a stone bridge that spanned the roaring river. That choice ended up being very fortunate, because she’d just gotten close enough to start making out individual farms outside of the city walls when she noticed a commotion up ahead.

One of the farms was being attacked by a giant, and a small group of people danced around it, fighting to bring it down.

Merrin broke into a run towards them. Anybody who’d spent any amount of time in Skyrim knew how dangerous even a single giant could be, and when she’d encountered them in the field with clients, she’d always done her best to skirt around them. A few times, she hadn’t been able to, and that was why she ran to join the fight in front of her now. She knew they’d need all the help they could get.

The sounds of the battle were growing every second, and as she approached, she surveyed the scene.

The giant was bellowing in frustration as he fought his three opponents—two women in light armors, and a man in steel who was much taller and broader. They were faster than the giant so far, but the giant was trying his best to crush them with an enormous club made of mammoth bone that had a jagged boulder fixed at the top. One hit from that, and it wouldn’t matter how fast you’d been.

They’d done some damage, but nothing serious—one of the other women was an archer too, and she could see arrows sticking like quills from the giant’s arms and torso. An enraged giant could take a lot of punishment.

He’d wandered into a field full of crops, and as he stomped his huge feet and flailed his club fruitlessly into the earth, she could see the pulverized remnants of cabbages go flying through the air with each raining shower of dirt.

She was close enough now. As the huge man with the greatsword yelled tauntingly at the giant, she nocked an arrow and drew it back, trusting her aim to be true as she loosed it.

She’d been aiming for the back of the giant’s knee, and her arrow found its mark with a satisfying thud. It roared with pain and rage, and staggered about-face to lurch towards her, free hand groping at the arrow and snapping it. They’d noticed her entrance into the fray, and the male warrior used the opportunity to slash the giant’s other knee with his great sword. With his tendons severed, the giant couldn’t walk, and the ground beneath them trembled as he crashed to his knees. Bellowing madly, he swept out with his club, and all three fighters had to jump out of the way; the other woman there barely made it in time, accidentally dropping her sword as she fell to the ground.

Merrin lined up another shot while the path was clear, and took her chances, letting it fly. Her aim was true again; this arrow found the giant’s left eye, and his head jerked back, his expression going instantly lax. Then he fell back with another, quieter crash, and lay unmoving in the torn up soil.

As a comparatively yawning silence settled over the farm, she jogged to cover the last of the distance separating them. One of the women walked up to meet her, and called out to her when she was still several feet away.

‘You handle yourself well in a fight, stranger.’

They eyed one another. The woman in front of her was also tall, and also a Nord. She had fiery red hair and fierce green eyes, accentuated by a trio of dark, jagged slashes painted over her proud face.

‘It looked like you folks could use some help.’

The woman shook her head, but when she spoke, she sounded pleased.

‘We didn’t _need_ your help to solve this. But it’s certainly appreciated.’ Her eyes narrowed assessingly, and then she spoke again. ‘You have the potential to be a good Shield-Sister.’

Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Shield-Sister? Which group do you belong to?’

The green-eyed woman threw her head back and laughed. ‘I can’t tell if you’re new just to Whiterun, or to all of Skyrim, not knowing something like that.’ She stood up straight and tall, and continued with obvious pride.

‘We are Companions, following in the footsteps of our mighty founder, Ysgramor. We are brothers and sisters in honor, and fight for noble causes across the breadth of Skyrim.’

_The Companions._ Of course, Merrin knew them; what true Nord wouldn’t? Her father had raised her on stories about them and the things they’d done, and as a little girl stuck in a sleepy village, she’d dreamed more than once of running off to join them.

But it hadn’t occurred to her when she made her way to Whiterun that she might _actually_ encounter some of the warriors.

The woman’s earlier words hit her again, then, and she found herself full of shocked disbelief. She knew her way around a bow and blade, sure...but...

‘And...you think I have the potential to join you?’ The absurdity of a child-hood fantasy long set aside suddenly walking right up to her and knocking on her forehead had her welling up with scepticism. Just...what on Nirn were the odds?

The woman flashed her a grin. ‘I’ve seen that you know how to fight. You’re good with that bow—and I have a good eye in that department.’ She jiggled her own bow where it rested over her shoulder to emphasize her point. ‘So yes, I see potential in you. But really, it comes down to the person in question. If _you_ think you’re skilled enough to join our ranks, then you should head up to Jorrvaskr in the Wind District, and speak to the Harbinger.’

‘I’ve come to Whiterun on other errands...,’ she hedged. In the last two days, she’d been arrested for conspiracy, had all her possessions stolen, had nearly been executed, and had then nearly been killed by a fire-breathing dragon. The idea that she’d be encouraged the very next day to join a world-famous company of warriors— _by one of said warriors—_ was just a _lot_ to take in, all things considered.

The woman laughed at her again. ‘Well, just think it over, then. My name is Aela—I hope to see you there.’

With that, Aela and the dark-haired Imperial woman she’d come with took off towards the city at a run, hair streaming in the wind, never looking back.

But the hulking Nord with the great sword stayed behind.

He walked up to her from where he’d been examining the giant’s corpse, and really looked at her for the first time. As he did, Merrin found herself pinned by a pair of the most impossibly blue eyes she’d ever seen—eyes the color of a clear winter sky, made even more striking by the sooty black warpaint that circled them.

Despite their striking quality, there was unmistakeable warmth in them, and the man they belonged to gave her an easy grin as he leaned toward her conspiratorially.

‘Aela doesn’t mince words. And she doesn’t make an offer like that to just anybody.’ His voice was deep and easy, and it matched his friendly demeanor, if not his rugged and hulking mass. He had dark brown hair that came down to his shoulders, and as he spoke, the wind pushed it around his chiseled face.

‘Er...I see.’

‘And for what it’s worth, I agree with her,’ he continued. ‘If you think you can take it, you should come to Jorrvaskr and be a Companion. The gold is good, and so’s the company.’ He paused to think, and then his grin widened as he amended his statement. ‘Most of the time.’

And there it was again—the offer of coin that could keep her going. But there was doubt churning in Merrin’s gut, and she had no qualms just then about giving that doubt a voice.

‘I’m honored at the offer, I really am,’ she said honestly. ‘But I just _really_ wasn’t expecting something like this. And...’ She stared at the man, a perfect stranger, and shrugged as she lifted her palms to the sky in a helpless gesture. ‘It seems more than a little unlikely, don’t you think? Just walk right into Jorrvaskr, and become a Companion?’

He laughed at her then, a loud and joyful whooping sound that made her stomach do a sudden flip, and shook his head as he regarded her with mirth in his shining eyes.

‘Oh, no, don’t worry. It isn’t so easy as just walking through the door. Not by a _long_ shot.’

She winced, cringing internally at how her words must have sounded to him, but he didn’t seem fazed in the least. He put his hand on her shoulder then, an uncommonly friendly gesture in Skyrim for a stranger, and she noted absently that it was such a big hand that it covered most of her shoulder, armor and all.

‘But honestly, don’t be discouraged,’ he continued, and now his voice had a conspiratorial tone to it, too. ‘Anything can be intimidating, before you really know what it looks like.’

And with that he let her go, gave her a little wave, and took off running in the direction of the city, leaving her speechless and confused.

 

 

As she walked up the long and gradual hill to the city gates, Merrin told herself to forget about the Companions for now, and focus on the task at hand.

After the brawny blue-eyed man had left her alone, a meek looking Bosmer who tended the farm had emerged from the house there and walked up to her. She’d wanted to thank Merrin for her part in killing the giant, but didn’t have much to offer her, and in the end she’d handed her two cabbages from the field that hadn’t been destroyed. They sat in her rucksack now, making it bulge, and she thought wryly to herself that she’d need to find either a stew pot or a grocer in her very near future.

The guards at the gate didn’t want to let her into the city when she approached, but when she told them that she had news about the dragon attack at Helgen, they yielded. They watched her pass with suspicious eyes, telling her they’d be watching her.

The second she passed through the heavy wooden gates, the city hit her like a wall of color, and her hungry eyes tried to take everything in at once.

The sun was still sitting high in a clear blue sky, and its light made everything look bright and cheerful here. A small, man-made river rushed through a tunnel beneath her feet, lending its soothing sounds to the air. A wide cobbled road made of different colored stones beckoned her further in, branching off in three directions and lined with green shrubbery. If she didn’t head left past a watchtower and under a quaintly crumbling archway, or up a short hill to a handsome looking tavern, she’d walk directly past a two-storey house with a smithy and a smelter outside. The breeze was wafting towards her, and the smells coming from the forge made her ache with nostalgia.

She saw that the smith here was a woman, and felt immediate kinship with her. She was leaning against one of the pillars of her house, and talking to a beefy blonde man in Imperial armor. As Merrin passed them, she heard some of their conversation.

‘I simply can’t fill an order this size by myself. Why don’t you ask Eorlund for help? He’s more experienced, anyway.’

‘I wouldn’t ask him for spit, Adrienne. Besides, you know the old man’d never make steel for the Legion...’

It didn’t surprise her that the conflicts of the civil war were present in the city; it was the same story no matter where you went in the province. She turned her attention to other things.

Her steps were getting lighter as she continued down the main road; she hadn’t known what to expect of Whiterun, and the city was filling her with delight. Everywhere she looked housed a sort of quiet beauty, as lovely as it was old and shabby. The houses here all seemed to be made of the same weathered, honey-colored wood, with wrought-iron keepers nailed into every door, and intricate lead piping in every window glass. Small gardens spilled lush and fragrant everywhere, and lanterns hung from the pillars or porches to light your way come nightfall. Paint was peeling and wooden beams were cracked, but it all came together as fanciful.

When she came to an open-air market, she asked a passerby for directions to Dragonsreach, and had her suspicions confirmed; just keep heading up until she’d reached the top.

As she walked up the first set of steps and continued into the Wind District, she discovered that Whiterun was full of rivers; natural and man made, side by side. They circled a courtyard spanned with several footbridges. They came gushing straight from the rockface that held up the Clouds District, where she could already see Dragonsreach, sweeping and grand, water rushing through metal grates to collect in deep pools that hedged the long stairway to the Keep’s front doors.

She climbed the long and twisting staircase, and felt the wind pick up to play in her loose, unruly hair. When she reached the top, she was greeted by a magnificent wooden bridge with a trellis, spanning across yet another pool of clear water. These guards too looked at her with suspicion, but she squared her shoulders and ignored them as she passed through the enormous wooden doors.

Dragonsreach had been impressive on the outside, and the inside didn’t disappoint. A short set of stairs led up to a massive throne room, with sweeping cathedral ceilings and second-story balconies wrapping all the way around, and daylight streamed through elaborate stained glass windows sitting just below the ceiling. Ornate rugs adorned the rich wooden floors, and two long banquet tables set with fine silver and crystal stretched along either side of an enormous central fire pit. Torches adorned the walls in frequent sconces, and an elaborate wrought iron chandelier hung above her fitted with what must have been a hundred candles—currently unlit.

Beyond all of this sat the Jarl and his court, and far above him sat easily the most impressive trophy of them all—affixed to the wall sat a mounted dragon skull. It was huge, the bone polished to a clean, gleaming white. The horns that sprouted from the skullcap were dark and twisting, and still wickedly sharp, and the jaw hung open to display rows and rows of teeth, the biggest of which must’ve been five inches long. This was the dragon for which the Keep was named, and this was something that she could respect.

Wealth had never cowed her, even though she’d never known it, and she walked purposefully past the long banquet tables towards the man on the throne.

She was expecting to be apprehended by a housecarl of some sort, and she wasn’t disappointed there, either; she was still several paces away from the Jarl when her path was blocked by a Dunmer in leather armor, sword already drawn.

‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’ the elf spat at her, glaring at Merrin with bright red eyes.

‘I seek the audience of Whiterun’s Jarl.’

‘Jarl Balgruuf is holding court, and not receiving visitors.’ The Dunmer’s tone was openly hostile, and while she sheathed her sword, she didn’t budge. ‘You’ll need to leave, and come again at some other time.’

‘I can’t leave without speaking to him,’ Merrin persisted. ‘I’ve come to deliver an important message.’

‘Whatever it is,’ the housecarl hissed, ‘it isn’t important enough to interrupt court proceedings. And regardless, you won’t be delivering your message personally. Whatever you need to tell the Jarl, you can say to me.’

She was quickly remembering why she avoided Jarl’s courts whenever possible—housecarls were impossible to deal with. Feeling her anger start to simmer, she resisted the urge to ball her hands into fists, and refused to back down from the Dunmer’s challenging gaze.

‘I am not leaving, court or no court. Not without relaying my message to the Jarl.’

The Dunmer was looking mutinous, and she took a step forward, getting right up in her face. ‘What message could _possibly_ be so important, that you consider yourself above the court’s law?’

‘A message about a dragon,’ Merrin said flatly. ‘I come with news of the attack on Helgen.’

 

 

After saying those words, Merrin found herself standing in front of the Jarl of Whiterun in no time at all. His housecarl, who turned out to be named Irileth, stood right beside him, eyeing her angrily with open distrust.

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was a long, lanky man, with a large nose in a pointed face, and a mane of long blonde hair. Understandably, he wasn’t happy to see her.

‘So you say you were _at_ Helgen when it burned to the ground. And you’re _quite_ sure it wasn’t brigands of some sort who set the fires?’

‘Unless brigands have wings, and fly around breathing fire.’

‘You disrespect the Jarl, woman!’ Irileth shouted and made to step toward her, but Balgruuf held a hand up to stop her, and stared at Merrin with lips skeptically pursed.

‘You say it wasn’t bandits, then fine, so be it. But a _dragon_? That’s hard to believe. We haven’t had a dragon in Skyrim for a thousand years, girl. Tell me, are you _absolutely sure_?’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Merrin said dryly. ‘I had a pretty good view of the beast from where I was standing.’ She hadn’t forgotten Hadvar’s advice, and she left out the part about her head being on a chopping block.

‘Ysmir’s beard.’ Balgruuf slumped back in his throne, and brought a hand up to his brow in frustration.

‘I don’t want to believe it. You bring me terrible news, kinsman.’

‘That isn’t all I’ve come to tell you,’ she replied. ‘I come on behalf of the people of Riverwood. The smith there, Alvor, asks that you send soldiers to protect the village, in case the dragon returns and attacks. They have no other defenses.’

‘Alvor?’ Balgruuf straightened in his chair, suddenly thinking hard. ‘Yes...I know the man you speak of. Blonde fellow, has a nephew in the Legion, if I’m not mistaken.’ His brow furrowed. ‘He’s an upstanding citizen, and a sturdy sort of man...never prone to flights of fancy. If he vouches for you that a dragon really _did_ attack Helgen, then I have no choice but to believe it as truth.’

Irritation flickered in her—why would she come here just to tell lies? But she smothered her anger, and kept her voice level.

‘So then, will you send aid to Riverwood?’

‘...Yes.’ Balgruuf stroked his beard with one hand, and looked past her into the flames in the pit. ‘If a dragon burned Helgen, then I’ll dispatch soldiers to Riverwood at once. Irileth,’ he addressed his housecarl without looking up. ‘Send a compliment of men down to Riverwood straight away.’

Irileth nodded and turned to go, but a petite and balding Imperial man rushed forward from where he’d been standing off to one side, his fussy face pinched with concern.

‘Jarl Balgruuf, I think you are acting in too much haste. It would be unwise to send fully armored soldiers down through those woods. The Jarl of Falkreath might consider it a provocation. He may think we mean to attack him!’

The Jarl scowled. ‘Proventus, I understand your concern. But between the two evils, the lesser is clear to me. I’ll not sit idly by in this Keep while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people.’ He turned to the Dunmer woman again. ‘Irileth, send out the troops.’

She left, and now it was the Imperial’s turn to scowl. ‘Perhaps I should return to my other duties.’

She could’ve sworn she saw the Jarl roll his eyes. ‘That would be best.’

They were now the only two people on the raised platform that held the throne, and after a moment, Merrin turned to go. She wasn’t expecting any kind of reward or acknowledgement, and now it was time for her to start figuring out what her next step should be.

Balgruuf called to her as she lifted her foot to walk away. ‘Hold there a minute.’

She turned back around to face him. ‘Yes?’

‘It was good of you to deliver that message for Alvor. Riverwood will be the better for it.’

He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, head cocked to one side, and then spoke again.

‘Are you looking for paid work? You seem the right type for a job my court wizard has been trying to get done.’

Internally, she winced; she really _did_ try to stay away from the affairs of Jarl’s courts—they’d never done anything but frustrate and annoy her. But how could she really afford to refuse? She barely had any money left from her trade in Riverwood.

Ultimately, the weightless feeling in her coinpurse compelled her to nod her head.

‘Excellent, excellent.’ He nodded his head at her, and got up out of his throne. ‘Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to Farengar. You might want to let _me_ do the talking, to start. Farengar, he’s good at what he does, but he’s a bit...well, you know. Mages.’

_Fantastic._ She was already regretting agreeing to do the job, and she hadn’t even heard what it was yet.

Balgruuf led her through a tall arching doorway that branched off to the left of his throneroom, and into the study of the court wizard. A dark wooden desk dominated the centre of the room, the surface covered in rolled out maps and piled dusty tomes, and glittering blue soul gems of varying sizes. Before she even saw the wizard, she had no doubt he’d be a Nord—he had a troll’s skull for a paperweight.

Behind the desk along a back wall stood an alchemy table, its green bottles and tubes currently in the process of refining some dark, strong-smelling liquid over a small blue flame—she’d tried her hand determinedly at potion-making over the years, but was little more than hopeless at it, and she could only guess as to what the liquid was.

Beside the alchemy table was an _enchanting_ table, and _there_ she was much more at home; a tall man in navy robes was bent over the glowing runes, and he turned when Balgruuf called to him.

‘Farengar! It would seem I’ve found you an able assistant to help you with your dragon project.’

_Wait. This was about dragons???_ The Jarl conveniently hadn’t mentioned that part.

The wizard turned to face them, and lowered his hood. He _was_ a Nord, with a long pointy chin and massive auburn mutton chops. He looked her over with obvious disapproval, and then met the stare of the Jarl.

‘Jarl Balgruuf, are you certain? She doesn’t look like she’d be much help to me.’ His voice was pompous, his air self-important, and Merrin began to dislike him immediately. First impressions carried weight with her, and Farengar was scoring low.

Balgruuf frowned. ‘Come now, old friend, give her a chance. This woman has proven herself a valuable ally to our Hold. I’ve no doubt she could handle the task you need done.’

The mage looked like he wanted to argue, but after a tense moment he conceded instead. ‘Alright, alright.’ His cold blue eyes shifted back to hers, and he stared her down as he addressed her directly.

‘So, the Jarl thinks you could be of use for me? I need to have something fetched, and brought back to my laboratory. And when I say ‘fetch’, I mean delve deep into a dangerous ruin, to retrieve an ancient stone tablet that I can’t guarantee will even _be_ there.’ He smirked. ‘Still think you’re up to the challenge?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Just tell me where I’m going and what I’m looking for.’

The smirk widened. ‘Ah. Straight to the point, eh? No compulsion to pester me with hows and whys—I like that. Best to leave those things to your betters, I’d say.’

She opened her mouth, sharp words on her tongue, but Balgruuf beat her to it.

‘Farengar! You forget your place in my court! This is no way to treat an ally to our Hold.’ He was looking angry, but not surprised, and he stared down the man in the blue robes until he cowed.

The mage looked embarrassed, and offered her a limp apology that he clearly didn’t mean, and she didn’t accept. Out of the frosty silence that ensued, he continued, considerably more awkwardly than before.

‘I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in a Nordic Barrow not far from here. It’s called the Dragonstone, and it supposedly carries a map of ancient dragon burial sites. You’d need to go to the Barrow, find the tablet—probably hidden away in the innermost chamber—and bring it back to me. Simple, right?’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ she said to him tersely. ‘Where is this Barrow, exactly?’

‘It’s in the mountains just outside Riverwood. It’s called—’

‘Bleakfalls,’ she finished for him. ‘I’ve seen it before.’

He seemed surprised, but did his best to recover. ‘So no need for further directions, then.’

‘No. Will you be giving me the claw now, or before I leave?’

She was met with a profound and confused silence from both of the men in front of her, and their confusion only irritated her more. Surely, they hadn’t overlooked...?

‘The claw key?’ she tried again, raising her arched brows. ‘How do you expect me to get into Bleakfall’s Hall of Stories without the corresponding claw key? You have it, don’t you?’

Now _both_ men were looking thoroughly embarrassed. ‘Ah....no,’ Farengar finally muttered. ‘The thought hadn’t occurred...we don’t have..’

Balgruuf was quickly going from embarrassed to angry, if his expressions were any reliable indicator, and he turned to Farengar with red tinging his cheeks. ‘You mean you’ve been sending all these mercenaries out there with no way to even get _in_?’

_How many people had tried to do this job before her?_ Again, unbidden, her mind flashed her an image of glowing blue eyes and grasping skeletal hands, and she had to repress a shudder.

Farengar floundered, and after several moments of uncomfortable silence, Merrin broke back in.

‘It should be fine. The locks are specialized, but simple enough. If it comes down to it, I can fashion a dummy key.’ She’d had to do it once before, and was confident that she could do it again—the most annoying part was standing around while you guessed at the ring combination.

Farengar was quick to grasp at this news, pouncing on it gratefully, and he recovered a hint of his old hot air.

‘There, see? Finally, Balgruuf, you bring me someone resourceful.’ He seemed stubbornly insistent on ignoring the fact that he’d blatantly declared her incapable the moment he met her, as well as the glares being levelled his way.

‘Before I really take this job, I need one point clarified.’ She turned to Balgruuf. ‘Your court wizard has made it clear that the tablet I’m supposed to retrieve might not even be in the Barrow. If I don’t find it, will I still get paid for my efforts?’

She had no problem working, but she wasn’t charging into a draugr-infested barrow for free.

Balgruuf assured her immediately that yes, she’d be paid for her efforts whether she returned with the Dragonstone or not, but at his words Farengar clucked and fussed like a hen.

‘But don’t let that stop you from actually _looking_ for it—Dragonsreach isn’t a charity!’

_What a truly wonderful man_.

‘Then it’s settled. I’ll set out for Bleakfalls first thing tomorrow morning, and come back with your tablet as soon as I’m finished.’

With the details settled, she couldn’t wait to be out of the Keep. But before she turned to go, she stared pointedly at the work Farengar had left sitting behind him on the enchanter’s table, and then pointedly back at him.

‘And just by the by, you should be more careful. It’s dangerous to leave a filled soul gem near an unwarded pentacle.’

Farengar started, and then balked. ‘What? I would never...’ He whipped his head around to look at his work, and when he turned slowly back around, his shoulders were coming up to meet his bright red ears. ‘Ah. I see. So you are a fellow enchanter, then. Thank you for the reminder.’

He was looking properly humbled now, and from the look on Balgruuf’s face, there was definitely going to be a conversation taking place once she was gone. Unable to help herself, she flashed him a wide smile, and with that she took her leave of the Jarl.

 

 

When she was safely outside again, being bathed in the early afternoon sun, she turned her thoughts to preparing for the trip ahead of her; if she was going to go do a dangerous job, she’d need more provisions—and once again, she had no money to buy them with.

She walked all the way back down through Whiterun and into the open-air market; it seemed to be the city’s most commercial section, and when she got there she had a shop-keeper point her towards the inn.

The Bannered Mare was a cozy place, with a roaring fire in a lowered stone pit and snowberry wreathes decorating the walls. The walls themselves had three different looks; they were either weathered old shiplap, crumbling white plaster, or paintwashed a soft, lovely blue. The floor was knotted and scuffed, but there were hand-woven rugs laid down here and there, and candles sat flickering on every table. The barkeep called to her in a welcoming voice, telling her that she’d just put a fresh log on the fire. There were no other patrons just then, and she made her way quickly up to the bar.

The woman who’d called out to her was a sturdy Nord, with nut brown hair gathered up and away from a face with lines on it that spoke of her age, and she introduced herself as Hulda; when she asked Hulda if there was any work to be done in town, she was told that there was always money to be made by chopping wood for the tavern’s fires.

So that was what Merrin did; Hulda handed her an axe from behind the bar, and she spent the next several hours outside. She chopped wooden logs and stacked them into piles until her arms felt like noodles, while an endlessly friendly man named Sigurd worked alongside her, making small talk and encouraging her to visit his boss’s shop.

When the last of the wood she’d chopped was finally hauled inside, Hulda grabbed a sack of gold and extracted a number of coins that, while not by _much_ , was decidedly worth the effort, and piled them in front of Merrin on the bar. She immediately asked her if the inn had vacancy, and Hulda smiled and named a price. Merrin slid the requested number of septims back over the bar towards her before she slipped the rest into her own coinpurse. And then she went shopping.

In the slanted golden light of the setting sun, she bought apples and sweetrolls from a young girl at her mother’s grocery stand, and traded off the farmer’s cabbages for a few more coins apiece. After that, she ducked into the apothecary to buy magicka and stamina potions; the shopkeeper was a twitchy Imperial named Arcadia, who seemed convinced that Merrin had advanced Ataxia, and she hurried out of the shop as soon as she could.

She passed over Belethor’s shop, despite Sigurd’s enthusiastic advice.

But she _did_ go to the smithy named Warmaiden’s, and was glad to discover that for a nominal fee, the smith would let her use their whet stones to sharpen her sword herself—‘provided you know what you’re _doing_ , of course.’

She looked at the tall, tawny woman named Adrienne, and cracked a smile as she set her pack down.

‘I know what I’m doing, that I can promise.’

Adrienne gave her a quizzical look. ‘Do you have experience with forging and repairs?’

‘I do. I was a smith for years and years, before I left the province,’ she confessed.

It felt strange to tell another person what she’d done with her life, before she’d taken up mercenary work; in the last four years, it hadn’t come up once, and she had no idea why she offered the information now. Maybe it was the sense of kinship she’d felt with this woman, the moment she’d laid eyes on her. Or maybe she was missing her father more than usual.

In the end she supposed it didn’t matter—Adrienne’s eyes lit up at the information, and as she dragged out a wooden bucket for Merrin to use and filled it with water from the nearby stream, she told her how nice it was to see another female smith in Whiterun.

‘It’s hard to earn the same respect, as a woman,’ she griped as she handed Merrin the smooth river stones. ‘You know how it is. It’s tough getting clientele to trust you with their _precious_ weapons. Bah. Let alone actually trying to get _paid_ what they’d hand over to a fellow man.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ Merrin replied as she nodded. ‘So you must’ve proven yourself in the end. I know what you mean, though; things weren’t much different back home. But being the only option for miles helped some—a man is more willing to do fair trade if it’s either pay up, or go into battle with a broken breastplate.’ Her eyes danced as she looked at the other woman, and they shared a laugh before Merrin got to work.

‘That’s where our stories differ, then,’ the woman said with a sigh, leaning against the same pillar she’d rested on earlier. ‘I am _far_ from the only option Whiterun has. In fact, I have punishing competition.’

Something about the woman’s words jogged Merrin’s memory, and she put down the stone she’d been holding to look at her with sudden awe.

‘That’s right! You have to compete with Eorlund Grey-Mane.’ She whistled. ‘I don’t envy you.’

Adrienne looked glum. ‘There, you see? I’m not surprised that you’ve heard of him. People come from all over Skyrim for his steel.’

She laughed. ‘I’m pretty sure my da was in love with him. All the while I was growing up, it was Eorlund this, and Eorlund that. He came to see the Skyforge once, and I begged him to take me, but he wouldn’t. He talked about it for years after, though.’

They were happy memories, but it pained her to talk about them, and soon she let the story trail off. The other woman seemed to sense her subtle melancholy, but didn’t press her further, changing the subject instead.

And Merrin was grateful. She’d always enjoyed talking shop with fellow blacksmiths, but it had been years since she’d had the opportunity, and she found herself laughing and enjoying Adrienne’s company as she worked her way through the stones and brought her tired old sword to a wicked new edge.

Her initial liking for the woman had only grown as they’d worked side by side, and it seemed like the feeling was mutual, because after darkness had fallen around them outside, and as they cleaned up their messes, Adrienne turned to her and offered for her to come inside the house.

‘You should meet my husband, Ulfberth. I’m sure he would like you, and its been too long since we’ve had company for supper. Won’t you come in?’

The offer flattered her, and she gave her a warm smile. ‘Under normal circumstances, I would say yes, and I thank you for the offer. But I have an early start and a long journey ahead of me tomorrow, and I need to be getting back to my room at the inn.’

Adrienne nodded her understanding, returning her smile. ‘Some other time, then. The offer stands.’

They parted ways then, Adrienne calling out to wish her good luck on her journey before she went into her house for the night. People had lit their lanterns to see by, and as she made her way back to the inn, Merrin was feeling pleasantly surprised. She’d been travelling for the last four years, not really calling anywhere home, and she’d met all different kinds of people in that time. Some she counted as friends, but most she didn’t, and it made her happy to have met someone in the city who’s company she genuinely enjoyed.

Whiterun definitely had its annoyances, but there were good things about it, too.

As she pushed through the doors of the inn, she saw that where it had been empty, it was now bustling. She really _was_ getting tired, and wasn’t feeling particularly sociable, so she decided to take dinner up in her room. She only paused in the kitchen long enough to ask the Redguard serving girl for some roast pheasant and leeks with a bottle of mead, and then handed over the money and headed upstairs to her room.

There was a bottle of alto wine sitting in a bowl on the bedside table, and a goblet perched beside it. So she poured herself a glass of the dry red wine and drank from it as she sat on the bed and went through her purchases, packing for the job ahead.

She was just about finished when there was a knock on her door, and the serving girl came in to hand Merrin her dinner. It was good, flavorful food, and she ate it at the small table set up in the corner, washing it down with her bottle of mead. Then she walked to the door, turned the lock, and blew out all the candles, undressing in the dark.

She crawled in just her smallclothes into the bed, settling into the straw mattress and pulling the red quilt up over her chest, and then she laid there with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The light from the firepit out in the main room just enough to see by.

She thought about the next day’s job as she listened to the sounds of the merriment below.

When Hadvar had pointed out Bleakfalls to her on their way to Riverwood, she’d had no reason to believe that she’d ever be going inside. And now, one day later, that was _exactly_ where she was headed—in all likelihood, the stuff of his boyish nightmares was about to be her reality.

The gods had a strange sense of humor.

The long hard day and the strong, dark mead finally caught up with her then, and she pushed thoughts of draugr creeping up behind her forcefully from her mind as she snuggled deeper under the quilt.

It was the sweet sounds of the bard playing his lute downstairs that finally lulled her to sleep.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_14 th Last Seed, 4E201_

_In my latest dream, I see a line of every Harbinger who has ever lived, starting with Ysgramor._

_We stand in Sovngarde, at the foot of the legendary Whalebone Bridge, and as I watch, each Harbinger steps forward, welcomed by Tsun, and walks into the Hall of Valor. Until we come to Terrfyg, the one who first burdened us with the blood of the beast._

_He tries to follow his brothers and sisters before him, but before he can even set foot on the bridge, he is set upon by a great wolf, made of shadow and with eyes of fire, and the wolf pulls him into the Hunting Grounds. I can hear Hircine laughing as he opens his arms to Terrfyg._

_And Terrfyg seems regretful, but also eager, in a way—eager to join his master, after a lifetime of service as a beast. He never looks back as he’s dragged away._

_From there, a terrible thing happened; every next Harbinger in the line turned willingly away from the Hall of Valor, and entered the Hunting Grounds of their own accord, walking along beside their own shadowy wolves. Fear picked at me as I watched them, growing into terror as my time came closer, and closer._

_Too soon, it was my turn. I could see great Tsun standing on the other side of the bridge, beckoning to me through the shimmering mist. It appeared that I had a choice about where to go. And then I heard a snarling growl, and turned to see my own shadow wolf, stalking towards me, coming to drag me away from my ancestors and into Hircine’s waiting arms._

_My heart beat madly, and I reared back in fear. Suddenly, I felt a hand at my back. I whirled around, and came face to face with a stranger who hadn’t been there before._

_She had long, wild raven hair, and warm brown eyes that burned with courage and determination. She stared at the wolf with no trace of fear, and when she met my gaze, her bravery kindled my own. She had a sword in hand, and as she rose it, I felt the weight of my own warhammer at my back. I drew my weapon, and we charged the beast—determined to take it down together._

_I realize that this is only a dream. But I can’t help feeling like it still has meaning...I’ve had so few, throughout my lifetime. At any rate, it was a vivid enough dream to make a man like me take to writing, so it must be of some import. I will have to wait and see._

 

 

Merrin woke up before dawn’s first light, and it took her a few seconds to remember where she was. The Bannered Mare was all but silent, save for the sound of the serving girl downstairs, doing her early morning chores.

It was dark in her room as she crawled out of bed, and she relit several candles to see by as she dressed.

First the grey cotton tunic, and then her brown cotton breeches. A pair of woolen socks.

She worked her way somewhat clumsily into her Imperial leathers, carefully feeling with her fingers to make sure she was doing each strap and buckle correctly. Proper armor was one of the first things she’d need, once she had money to buy it.

She was pleasantly surprised to see an oval mirror sitting on top of the room’s dresser, leaning against the wall; Alvor and Sigrid hadn’t had one in their house, and it had been a _very_ long time since she’d had a proper look at herself.

She dragged the chair over from the small table she’d eaten dinner at, and set it in front of the dresser. Then she lowered herself into the chair and pulled on the oversized leather boots—another thing she’d need to replace.

Finally, she turned and looked at herself.

In the flickering of the candle light, she eyed her own familiar features, and was relieved to see that nothing had changed.

Both of her parents were there, in her face; she resembled her mother more, with the same strong, high cheekbones and shape of eye, the same full lips and arching brows. But her father’s genes had had their say. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s because of him, and a smattering of his ever-present freckles covered the bridge of her aquiline nose. Beneath his fiery beard, he’d had the same pointed chin.

Her only contribution was one long scar; a crooked slash across the right side of her jaw, from her cheek to under her bottom lip, shining pink in the dancing light.

She groaned; she’d also inherited her father’s unruly hair. Her thick black waves were a tangled mess, and she worked hard to smooth it through with her fingers before she plaited it into a braid.

She didn’t linger at the mirror any longer than she needed to. In another minute she’d belted her scabbard around her waist with her sword already sheathed inside, and slung her bow and knapsack over her back. Then she blew out the candles and opened the door.

She passed through the inn without saying anything to the woman preparing breakfast in the kitchen, and slipped unnoticed into the brisk pre-dawn.

Whiterun was sleeping with the exception of the guards, who were making their way along their patrols with their torches still lit in the pearly haze. She nodded at the two men guarding the gate, and neither said anything as they nodded back.

 

 

Merrin had always loved this time of the day—when all was still and mostly quiet, bathed in the glow of approaching light. Everything wrapped in a lovely kind of hush, as if all the world were holding its breath, and the rising sun would bring the exhale.

The sun broke the edge of the horizon as she was walking down the long road that bowed from the city, and she tilted her face up to the first warm rays. Outside the city walls, the world around her was in various states of waking; the farmers were already tending their fields, their bodies moving in silhouette, and the warmth from the sun turned the dew in the fields into low hanging clouds of shimmering mist.

She only crossed paths with a few other people on her way down the road towards Riverwood. A pair of hunters with packs full of pelts emerged from the woods and hailed as they passed her, making their way towards the city to sell their furs. Not long after, a courier ran up behind her, quickly surpassing her and continuing on his way, paying her no mind at all.

She had a sweetroll to break her fast while she walked, and by the time she could see Riverwood in the distance, the sun had properly risen into the sky. There was no path to the Barrow from the village itself, and she turned instead off of the Emperor’s road, and onto a winding dirt path into the woods.

It was a confusing and roundabout path, and she figured out fast that the way up to the Barrow wasn’t as straight forward as she’d thought.

What had started out as a brisk morning was growing into a humid day, and the path she was climbing was steeply uphill. Soon, the sound of her cursing mixed with the chirring insects in the trees as she felt sweat running down her back. The too-large armor trapped even more heat, and she could feel her mood souring as she clambered through the brush.

It was hard not to be angry. She was struggling through these woods to make money to live by, and when she’d come into Skyrim six days earlier, she’d had everything she could’ve needed. She’d had gold and provisions, a good bow and arrows, shoes that actually fit her feet. She’d been wearing armor that she’d made for herself, and a sword that she’d specially forged. And then because of bad timing and sloppy decisions, it had all been taken away from her.

The money was a hit, for sure, but the loss of the sword was what rankled the most; all of Merrin’s most personal possessions had been stored away for safe keeping before she’d left Skyrim back in 197. So the Imperials hadn’t gotten their greedy hands on those. But the sword was special to her, and she’d never get it back.

Several minutes later, her dark ruminations were abruptly cut off by the path opening up, and her catching a glimpse of an old stone archway jutting over the treetops ahead. She hurried towards it, and after another minute, she scrambled up a pebbly shelf and found herself staring at the massive Barrow.

It was much, much bigger than it had looked from the road far below with Hadvar. The stone arches must have been jutting a hundred feet into the sky, a marvel of technology for the time, and an enormous stone staircase met with the mountain in front of where she stood.

As she ascended the staircase, she rose higher than the trees, and a wind picked up around her that cooled her off. It was hard to be humid, at altitudes like these.

She avoided the look-out points to her left, with their spectacular views and non-existent railings, and headed to her right instead. In no time at all, Merrin found herself standing in front of the two huge carved iron doors that would lead her into the Barrow, hidden cleverly behind a stone pillar.

Her thoughts flashed to Hadvar, probably on his way to Solitude by now. What he would say, if he could see her now!

She drew her sword from its sheath, took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed open the heavy doors.

Within seconds, it became obvious to her that she wasn’t alone in the Barrow. The light from a campfire was bouncing off the walls at the far end of a long crumbling hallway, and she could hear two people bickering in the same direction.

‘I say that we go after Arvel. Bjorn should’ve been back with word by now, anyway!’

‘This isn’t your decision, Solin. You heard Arvel—guard the gear, he said. Watch the door. How do you expect to make it out of here with _anything_ if you can’t follow simple instructions? If we screw up, we won’t get our cut.’

_Bandits._ She snorted quietly in disgust. It wasn’t the first time she’d found some sort of lowlife criminal squatting in a Barrow; if you were in a pinch, the front rooms were easy shelter, and Barrows in more remote locations were prime targets for looters.

These ones seemed to be pretty amateur. They were arguing so loudly that they didn’t even hear her re-sheath her sword and string her bow instead—and they _obviously_ weren’t doing a good job of watching the door. She crept a few steps forward and grimaced when she saw another two bandits laying dead in front of her, obviously killed by some dead skeevers nearby.

She could see the bandits clearly now, from her spot behind a leaning stone pillar. One man, one woman, both of them lightly armored, neither of them wearing helmets. She sighed.

Merrin had no great love for killing people—next to the traveling, the reason she’d become a mercenary was to _protect_ people. But Skyrim’s laws on bandits were clear-cut.

It would be impossible for her to sneak around them, so she took care of them instead; the first arrow she loosed buried itself in the side of the male bandit’s neck, and he died quickly with a gurgling rasp. His companion noticed immediately and screamed in fear, but she was stupid enough to dart towards her comrade instead of towards cover, and Merrin’s second arrow lodged in her chest. It was a clean shot, and the woman’s death was quick; Merrin waited to make sure the scream hadn’t attracted any more bandits, and then stepped out of the shadows and walked up to the bodies. The woman had been an archer, and Merrin took the arrows out of her quiver and transferred them to her own before she continued onward, not bothering with the chest they’d been guarding.

She descended into a network of tunnels that were labyrinthine and crumbling. The ancient Nords had preferred circular tunnels, made of stone and full of elaborate carvings; the tunnels she walked through now were ruined and full of rubble, breaking apart after thousands of years, with moss and ferns covering the floor and a network of tree roots climbing the walls. She had to watch her step carefully to make sure she didn’t trip, and even though she hadn’t reached the crypts yet, her ears were strained for the sounds of approaching draugr.

It was as she was walking past yet another lit brazier and creeping down a worn stone staircase that she heard a human’s muttered curse.

As she ducked especially low, Merrin could see that there was another bandit standing in the room at the bottom of the stairs; he was standing in front of a lever that presumably opened a gated doorway, and staring to his left at a trio of stone pillars. They were pretty common in the Nordic Barrows; the idea was that if you turned the pillars in the correct combination, the lever would open the door, no problem. But from the sound of this bandit’s muttering, he was finished trying to figure it out.

‘Oh, piss on it!’ And he reached out and pulled the lever.

Merrin winced, but there was nothing she could do. In an instant, what must have been twenty poisoned darts came shooting from holes in the walls in all directions, and _most_ of them found the bandit’s flesh. He howled in astonished pain, and in a second or two he had staggered, hands scrabbling against his skin, and fallen flat on his back. His legs and arms were twitching wildly, and foam started bubbling from his mouth.

He died with a terrible rasping gurgle, and then he was still on the cold stone floor.

Nausea and pity both bit at her—bandit or no, it was an awful way to die, and her chest was tight when she finished descending the staircase and walked up to his pale corpse. His eyes were wide open and bulging, and she knelt down to close them before she looked at the pillars.

She’d solved this kind of puzzle several times before, and it didn’t take her long to work out the combination. She turned the pillars so that they presented two snakes and then a whale, and then she stepped over the bandit’s body and pulled the lever again herself.

She got a much different response than the dead man beside her; the metal gate blocking the passageway came shooting up and out of her way, locking in place so that she could pass through.

Beyond that door, the Barrow started looking much more untouched. Thicker and thicker cobwebs came sweeping across the ceiling, and only the occasional brazier was lit, making it almost impossible to see. If she strained her eyes, Merrin could make out a single set of footsteps disturbing the thick layer of dust on the floor.

_Still_ she didn’t hear any draugr, but her ears were straining to catch the smallest sound; if there was any way she could avoid getting snuck up on, she was going to do it.

She’d been inching her way through the darkness for several minutes when natural light started sifting through it, and she noticed then that the walls, floors, and ceilings around her were entirely coated in spiderwebs. Merrin grimaced; she had a pretty good idea of what was ahead.

The sudden sound of someone frantically shouting for help had her jumping a foot in the air.

‘Help, help! Is anybody there? Horknir! Bjorn, Solin! Somebody, _help_!’

She dashed around the corner ahead, and in the next room she found the source of the crying pleas. At the far end of a long room covered _entirely_ in webs, a Dunmer bandit was thrashing around, hopelessly caught up in a thick layer of spider’s webbing that covered the room’s other exit.

A jagged hole in the ceiling here was the source of the natural light she’d been following, and in the bright light she could see the man’s expression of relief; he stopped his thrashing, and called out to her.

‘Hey, you! Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Please, come and help me, I can’t move!’

It looked as if he’d gotten stuck trying to leap through the webs in the doorway. Warily, she took another step towards him.

‘How did you end up stuck like that?’

‘There’s no time for questions like that,’ he insisted. ‘You have to _hurry_ , before it comes back!’

She’d opened her mouth to ask what ‘it’ was, but before she’d made a sound, she got her answer; through the hole in the ceiling came crawling a Frostbite spider that dwarfed the ones she’d had to kill with Hadvar.

The Dunmer went pale as the spider descended, his dark eyes bulging as he started to gibber. Then his gibbering turned to shrieking, and he started screaming hysterically as he thrashed in the web, begging her not to let it get him.

He was screaming for nothing—the spider wasn’t interested in _him_. Immediately it scuttled straight for her, mouth foaming and mandibles clacking, and it covered the distance between them almost instantly.

_Oh, shi—_ Merrin tossed her bow away somewhere to the side and ripped her sword out of its sheath, bringing it up just in time as the spider lunged at her. What would’ve been a punishing bite got countered when she managed to force her blade between its foamy mandibles, but the spider was easily bigger than she was, and it had the upper hand in weight and strength. She stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and the erratic movement was the only thing that saved her from catching a sudden spray of green poison directly to the face.

‘Kill it, kill it, for Azura’s sake woman, _kill it_ ,’ the Dunmer bandit screamed from up ahead.

She ignored him—she _had_ to, if she was going to win this fight. When she’d stumbled, she’d noticed that the spider was missing its front left leg, and now an idea was forming quickly in her head.

Keeping her knees bent, she sliced out in an arc with her sword, aiming for the front _right_ leg, and the steel of her blade swept clean through the spider’s exoskeleton with a disgusting _crunch_. The severed leg fell to the floor with a thud, and the spider hissed like a tea kettle as it bobbed down and forward, trying to adjust.

Now was her chance.

With a mighty yell, she launched herself at the spider, leaping into the air before she could actually hit it and managing to connect chest-first with what would’ve been its shoulder. It was a struggle to hang on to her blade, and the spider shrieked and started trying to shake her off, but Merrin was stubborn and wouldn’t be dislodged; she grabbed a fistful of its bristling brown body hair, and when her foot found purchase against another spindly leg, she used all the strength she could muster to boost herself onto its back.

The spider started bucking and rearing like a horse, and she almost fell a handful of times as she shimmied painstakingly towards the giant monster’s head, but she finally managed to get there, and locked her knees around its narrower neck. She was lucky that the spider hadn’t thought to climb a wall to escape—if it had, she probably would’ve broken _her_ neck.

Finally in position, Merrin gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands, and brought it down with a triumphant yell directly through the top of the spider’s head.

The creature let out a terrible shriek and blue blood started pooling around her sword, but she could tell in a second that something was wrong; it staggered around, but didn’t die like she’d expected. She cursed herself for her stupidity—she must not have actually reached the brain.

The spider was enraged now, and it gave a mighty heave that she couldn’t compete with—jamming her sword through its hard carapace had wrenched both of her arms, and it was all she could do to take her sword with her as she tumbled off the spider’s back and landed on the stone floor below with a thud.

The fall had knocked the wind right out of her, and she struggled to take a breath as the spider whirled around. It was in a frenzy, poison dripping from its mouth, and it gave another scream as its many eyes locked onto her. It surged forward, and Merrin did the only thing she could do—she lifted her sword.

Her blade came thrusting up just as the spider’s hungry mouth came surging down, and this accident of timing achieved what Merrin’s plan hadn’t; the steel of the blade stabbed into the spider’s maw, its own weight and the angle of the blade causing it to carry through, all the way to the brain behind.

It gave one more scream, and then the spider slumped forward, dead, the change in positioning nearly breaking Merrin’s arm, and the weight of its body pinning her to the floor.

The Dunmer started screaming triumphantly in front of her, but she had no time to celebrate; she had a serious problem.

When the spider had run itself through with her sword, her arm had been dragged deep into its maw, tearing her skin, and now acidic blood and poison alike were both seeping into her various wounds. She was officially poisoned.

‘Hey! You won! Are you still alive in there?’

Merrin only groaned in response. This poison wouldn’t take long to spread; she could already feel the chill gripping her body. If it fogged her brain, she didn’t have a chance. She let go of her sword and withdrew her arm, stifling her moans of pain as every cut and tear were newly aggravated. Cradling the wounded arm against her chest, she started feeling around with the other for a way to escape.

By the time she found a small opening between two crumpled legs, her breathing was seriously labored. She twisted her body into a painful, unnatural position, and laboriously scooted inch by inch until her head and chest were freed. With her knapsack on, she barely fit; she had to kick with all her strength to push herself the rest of the way through. When she finally wrenched herself from under the spider’s heavy body, she laid limp against the cold stones, her face bathed in slanted sunlight, and didn’t move at all.

She didn’t know how much time passed, then. It was the Dunmer man who jarred her back to her senses.

‘Hey, Nord! Wake up! You can’t just let the poison take you.’ His voice was loud, cajoling, and full of fear. ‘If you die, then who will get me out of here?’

His motives were selfish, but his message hit home—she had no intention of dying in this crumbling ruin.

Feeling like her muscles were made of rope, Merrin forced herself onto her side, and took a second to look at her injury. Her right arm was a total mess; long, deep scratches were full of sticky black blood that the poison had quickly coagulated, and pus that was a nauseating shade of green was already oozing from the centres of the wounds. Her skin itself had gone an ashy sort of purple, and her veins were corded starkly against the surface.

She sucked in a sharp breath, and shoved down the urge to either scream or vomit. Determination stirred back to life as she clamped her good hand painfully around her forearm.

She opened her channel of restorative magic, and the cobwebby room was bathed in golden light as she started leeching the poison from her body and knitting shut her torn up flesh.

It was slow going and difficult work; she’d almost been too late when she started, and the effects of the poison had exhausted her. The level of improvement she saw was just enough to keep her going, and it took several minutes of determined casting to achieve what she could normally do in moments.

But in the end, she _did_ achieve her goal: with the help of the magic coursing through her, her arm at last returned to normal, the skin smooth and unblemished, and the poison burned out and fizzled in her veins. Her vision had gradually cleared as she’d worked, and after long moments, her breathing slowed.

For at least a minute, she just laid there, gingerly testing how she felt. It had been a long time since she’d been poisoned, and never this badly. She wanted to make sure she’d actually recovered.

And the reality was that she was still exhausted; if she was going to finish the job she’d come here to do, she was going to have to perk herself up.

Slowly and stiffly, she finally sat up. The Dunmer started clamoring for her attention the second he saw her moving again, but she only shook her head at him.

‘Give me a minute.’

She pulled her pack from her shoulders and opened it up, rifling inside until she found what she wanted, and then withdrew from the bag with a green bottle clutched in her fist. She uncorked the stamina potion with her teeth, and then belted back the bitter, syrupy liquid.

She drank the whole thing, and as she did, much-needed strength and energy came flowing back into her body. She flexed her fingers and took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders and shaking her head. She tossed the empty bottle back into her bag and pulled herself steadily to her feet, finally feeling normal again.

She re-shouldered her pack and then walked across the room. She retrieved her bow from where she’d thrown it, satisfied with its apparently unharmed condition. Then she looked determinedly at the corpse of the spider.

It took some finessing, but after a minute she’d managed to lift the spider’s head with an old leg bone from one of its previous kills. She could see the hilt of her sword buried there, glinting in the sunlight, and she reached gingerly into its ruined mouth to yank the blade free of the steaming maw. She smiled to herself with satisfaction, and wiped the mess of blood and poison off on some nearby ferns. She took her time re-sheathing her blade, and then she gave her armor a once over.

Only then did she look up, and meet the bandit’s eyes.

 

 

The bandit had been eager to see himself out of that webbing, and it made him generous with his information. Immediately, he’d introduced himself as Arvel, and thanked her profusely for saving him. Then he’d begged her once again to hurry up and free him, before anything else came crawling along.

When she’d hesitated, Arvel had been quick to offer her a deal; if she cut him loose, he’d be happy to take her with him through the rest of the Barrow, and when they reached the Hall of Stories, he would split the treasure with her.

She’d asked him how he planned on getting inside, not expecting him to have an answer. But the Dunmer had surprised her.

‘I have a key, a golden claw. And I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories—I know how they all fit together! Help me down and I’ll _show_ you. You won’t believe the riches that the Nords stashed in there.’

_The golden claw._ As she’d stood there in front of him, the pieces had clicked together. _These_ were the very bandits she’d been hired to look for; the bandits that had broken into Valerius’ shop. Lucan hadn’t known that the claw really _was_ a key to an ancient Barrow, and by sheer coincidence, it happened to be the very Barrow that she needed to get into.

Internally, she’d made note of this stroke of fortune, amidst all the bad luck she’d been having; it looked like she wouldn’t be needing to make a dummy key after all.

She hadn’t let on that she knew of his crimes. As she’d cut him loose, Arvel had crowed in triumph, thanking her warmly again and again. His dark eyes entreated her, and his expression was trustworthy—jovial, even. But Merrin wasn’t fooled. He was telling her that the two of them could be allies, but he was a looter and a thief—it was only a matter of time until he turned on her. It didn’t escape her notice that he asked no questions about how she’d got there, and he didn’t once ask about any of his friends.

In the end, she’d decided that this suited her fine; two able bodies would make it through the draugr’s crypts more easily than she could alone, and when the time came that she had to fight, she was confident she would win. And so she’d feigned ignorance, and accepted his offer, asking him to lead the way.

She’d waited for draugr in vain up until then, but in no time at all, they were entering the actual crypts.

It hadn’t been long before they’d encountered what Merrin had been dreading most; they were descending a crumbling staircase when they heard a menacing growl.

They had only the light of two torches to guide their steps, but it was easy to see the piercing blue of glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. The draugr shuffled towards them both, its withered body shambling on broken feet. Its jaw was unhinged, and its face was crusted in dried blood—it had obviously encountered something else, recently. It growled and cursed as it raised its ancient axe, its guttural voice speaking in a tongue she couldn’t understand.

The draugr were dead, and it made them slow; as it had approached, she had clamped viciously down on her fear, and forced herself to jump into action. She had lunged towards the draugr with a whooping yell, and had severed its head from its emaciated shoulders with a single hard stroke of her blade.

Arvel had been slower on the uptake, and he stared at her open-mouthed as she whirled around to face him, eyes alight and teeth bared.

‘Mephala’s tits! You really _do_ know what you’re doing. Let’s hope we don’t run into any more, eh?’

But it had been a ridiculous hope, one she didn’t even bother sharing. As they plunged into the following rooms with their torches held high and their muscles taut, more of the cursed undead sought them out; papery skin stretched over their ancient bones as they staggered towards them with their weapons raised, and neither of them dared to relax for a moment.

They passed through several different rooms, Merrin careful to stay behind him—through crumbling hallways that were mostly collapsed, up a ruined staircase into a room with a waterfall, where draugr wandered around mindlessly and attacked them as soon as they drew near. They scurried through a long, dark crevice with an ice cold river rushing around their ankles, and twice Merrin took advantage of corridors with swinging axe traps, darting between the slicing blades and luring the much slower draugrs chasing her to a permanent death.

It was harrowing work. Corpses you thought were actually dead would suddenly try to grab you as you passed, skeletal claw hands groping wildly after you as they dragged themselves from their tombs to fight—once, Arvel narrowly avoided a sword through the ribs when a draugr took him by surprise.

She couldn’t let her guard down next to _Arvel,_ either; her fights were made harder by keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn’t take advantage of her distraction. And whenever they fought in a larger skirmish, she made sure to keep him ahead of her, in case he got the idea to try and shove her into a draugr’s waiting arms.

She wondered when they’d ever make it to the Sanctum; long after the groups of draugr had thinned, they continued to wind their way through endless tunnels. They were old and crumbling, some no better than oversized rabbit warrens, and sometimes they opened up into earthen caverns, with coursing rivers rushing beside them and clusters of glowing mushrooms climbing the rocky walls.

In the spaces between fighting, Arvel had taken to grandstanding loudly, telling her about what kinds of treasures they’d find beyond the Hall of Stories. She didn’t point out that he had no way of knowing the things he claimed; it really didn’t matter enough. He didn’t watch well enough where he was going, and at one point he ran through the shallow water they’d been following and barely managed to pull up short before he plummeted over the edge of a sudden cavern. The river had come to a waterfall, and the sharp rocks at the bottom of the swirling stone cauldron left no doubt about the fate of anyone unlucky enough to fall.

‘Careful,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Watch where you’re going, or you won’t make it to the Hall.’

They took a roundabout path spiralling downward instead, taking out a lone draugr on it’s shuffling patrol, before they crossed a natural earthen bridge with the waters swirling and churning just below. The bandit beside her would’ve had a fair chance of drowning her if he’d shoved her into the seething current, but he never tried, and she gritted her teeth as her shoulder blades itched in anticipation— _what was he waiting for??_

She had no choice but to keep wondering. They’d scrambled up a steep dirt incline and through another hole in the wall, and came upon a draugr armed with an ancient battle axe, standing at the ready, guarding a set of wood and wrought-iron double doors. Arvel was excited to see them, thinking they led to the Hall of Stories, but after they’d cut the draugr down and lifted the bar on the heavy doors, it was obvious to her that such wasn’t the case.

If she had to guess, she’d say they’d entered the first Sanctum; this section of the Barrow was much more impressive, with sweeping grand ceilings and arching bridges and long staircases with carved balustrades. Dusty metal stands holding old empty soul gems started flanking their paths, and Arvel learned the hard way that to knock one over was to draw unwanted attention.

There wasn’t much time for talking _or_ brooding—draugr were gathered here in much greater numbers, and she’d taken to setting her torch on the ground and using her bow instead, to try and thin the numbers from afar.

Just when Arvel was starting to suggest in an uneasy voice that maybe they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, they came across a room so badly destroyed that it had obviously suffered a cave in at some point. He thought that they should turn around, but when Merrin lifted her torch high behind him to illuminate the room, they saw another set of impressive double doors, and he quickly changed his mind. They clambered over large chunks of fallen stone and pushed open the great double doors, and _there_ , at last, was the Hall of Stories.

They both hurried inside, Arvel whooping as quietly as he could, and she immediately closed the heavy doors behind them. Arvel lit the cold and dusty braziers with the fire from his torch, exclaiming as he went, and cast flickering orange light over the long and silent hall. It stretched ahead of her, the puzzle door waiting at the end barely visible in the dim light of the fires.

She’d only been in one other Hall of Stories, and as she walked, she admired. The walls were covered in ancient Nordic carvings that had once depicted great battles and deeds, and she thought she could make out pictures of several of the Divines. But so ancient was the Barrow and so eroded were the walls that large sections were now entirely meaningless.

He didn’t move to make his inevitable betrayal until they’d reached the massive puzzle door. Merrin sensed the subtle change in the air—noted his shifting stance. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head; no more draugr meant that their usefulness to one another had come to an end. She turned to face him, and for a second they were both utterly quiet. Then Arvel slicked an especially charming smile over his face, and dug something out of his pack. ‘Here,’ he said, and when he extended his hand towards her, the golden claw was resting in it.

‘The key to the door? What about it?’ Merrin was careful to keep her voice neutral.

His smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. I think it’s only fair that _you_ be the one to open the door.’ He chuckled, and his expression was the picture of humility. Merrin’s stomach muscles bunched.

_So he’s either hoping some trap in the door will kill me, or he’s planning on doing it himself while my back is turned._

It turned out to be her second guess; she’d taken the claw from his outstretched hand and had just started working to turn the first wheel when her straining ears picked up the barely perceptible sound of something sliding from a leather sheath.

She’d been ready for him, every muscle tight with anticipation, and she was quick enough when she dodged to the side so that his intended stab was only a slice; his dagger slashed into the armor at her side instead of the muscles of her back, and his eyes were alight with surprised terror when she whirled around to face him.

She didn’t waste time or energy; she grabbed his wrist and slammed the hand holding the dagger into the rock wall. He yowled with pain and dropped the knife, and then she took him by the other shoulder and slammed his _face_ into the wall, instead. He staggered away, spluttering, and while he was disoriented, she stooped and grabbed the dagger he’d dropped. He saw her coming and tried to fight her off, but the adrenaline surging through her gave her the upper hand, and after a brief struggle she plunged his own dagger deep into his throat.

She shoved him away from her as his hands came up to the wound in his neck, and his dark eyes bulged in horror and surprise. Killing people had never gotten easier for her, and there was almost as much remorse as anger in her eyes as she stood there and watched him die.

When all was silent again, she stood there, trembling. She’d _expected_ his attack—that didn’t mean she’d _wanted_ it.

‘You fucking bastard,’ she whispered to Arvel’s body. ‘Why did you have to do it?’

Then she closed her eyes, and tried to force her body to calm down.

After a minute of even breathing, she felt calm enough to turn around, and examine the door behind her. She knew that the combination to the door would be on the back of the claw; when she flipped it around in her hand she saw a bear, a moth, and an owl carved there.

She could barely reach the highest ring even despite her height, and it took her a minute to turn the heavy stone wheel until it displayed a carving of a bear. The other two rings went much more quickly, and in another minute she was shoving the talons of the golden claw into the lock, and twisting.

The grinding of the massive stone door coming down attracted the attention of several draugr at once, and without the bandit’s help, they were all her problem. She had to fight extra hard to take them all down, _and_ not get maimed in the process; by the time she watched the light from the last draugr’s eyes flicker out as it crumpled, she was breathing hard, and had bruises blooming.

She squared her shoulders determinedly, and marched into the inner Sanctum.

 

 

What Merrin saw when she cleared the dusty entrance took her breath away.

She’d walked into a massive cavern. Daylight streamed through crumbling holes in the soaring stone ceiling, and it made her torch unnecessary, providing enough light for her to see by. The sound of rushing water was overwhelming; waterfalls fell in a cascade around the room, coming straight from the stony walls, and a river rushed by under an arching footbridge. The entire place felt ancient and untouched, but in some ways it wasn’t; as she stood there gaping, a colony of bats suddenly flew past her, shrieking at her intrusion as they settled higher up in the lofty ceiling.

She could see a raised platform at the top of a staircase, with a chest and a sarcophagus just sitting there. If the Dragonstone was in the Sanctum, that platform was its most likely hiding place, and she started walking forward to investigate.

That was when she heard the chanting voices.

Startled, she jumped and looked around, certain she’d missed someone else in the Sanctum—but no one was there. She was in the echoing room alone. As she looked around, the voices continued.

They were low, but urgent, keeping a fast rhythm, and they spoke the same language that the draugr had growled. For reasons she couldn’t begin to explain, something about them made her want to come forward, deeper into the room.

She gave in to the urge, and as she walked forward, the voices grew slightly louder. All at once, she realized where they seemed to be coming from—a tall, curving, man made wall at the back of the raised platform ahead.

Merrin was inexplicably drawn to that wall, and as she came closer she saw the head of a dragon carved into its stony face, centered high above her. Absently, she acknowledged that this should have made her wary, but she felt no apprehension as the voices guided her forward.

She saw as she drew nearer that there were strange runes carved into the wall; when she was still several paces away, one of the groupings started to glow. It was a chilling, eerie, icy blue, the exact same color as the draugr’s eyes, and as soon as it started, the chanting got dramatically louder.

_Wait!_ Internally, Merrin shook herself, and forced herself to stop walking.

An icy cold fear suddenly gripped her as she stood there—what if the glowing symbols were some sort of rune trap? She hadn’t come all this way just to get killed by a lousy spell.

She took a step back, not wanting to set it off by being too close.

Instantly, the chanting got exponentially louder—it sounded like there was a group of men standing beside her in the echoey chamber, shouting at the top of their lungs. It didn’t stop there; just as the chanting became all she could hear, drowning out every single other noise, a blueish white light came shooting from the glowing rune on the wall, and rushed directly towards her.

She had no time to run, or even to move, and she stared in horror as the light hit her directly in the chest.

The moment it hit her, Merrin went rigid. An energy unlike any she’d ever felt before was coursing through her body, heating her blood, making her vision darken and swim. She was suddenly incredibly dizzy, and she staggered back, catching an old metal stand holding a soul gem and knocking it over with a ringing crash.

She grabbed her forehead and bent over double, each breath a tearing gasp, and for several seconds she couldn’t see. Fear shot through her like a bolt of lightning— _what the hell was happening to her?!_

And then from the darkness that had swallowed her sight, the glowing runes came swimming back to the surface, exactly the way they’d looked on the wall. But as the strange and terrifying energy coursed through her, she could suddenly understand their meaning. They came together to spell a single word.

_Force._

As soon as she comprehended the word, the effects of the strange magic started to fade. The chanting quieted, reduced to a whisper, and soon she was standing there, dazed and out of breath, but with her heart rate slowing and her vision restored.

She bit back a fearful moan, and cursed as she trembled where she stood. What on earth had just happened to her? This was magic that she wasn’t familiar with, and she was terrified that she’d just been hit with some kind of slow-acting spell that would sicken her, or worse. The seconds ticked by, and Merrin waited anxiously for any negative effect from whatever had hit her. But eventually she had to admit that she was back to feeling perfectly normal.

She shook herself, calling on her discipline. It was time to get what she came for, and leave.

She’d taken a single step towards the chest on the platform when the lid of the sarcophagus came flying off with a startling _crack_ , hitting the stone steps and shattering. The noise was deafening in the quiet cavern, and Merrin jumped and had to bite back a scream. When she saw a withered and skeletal hand rise up and grip the side of the casket, she cursed again and drew her sword.

The draugr that climbed out of that sarcophagus was not like the others she’d faced in the Barrow. He radiated a terrible kind of energy, and when he looked at her and opened his sagging mouth, it wasn’t a harmless growl that came out.

‘ _Fus...RO!’_

This draugr could Shout. His words swept out on a wave of solid energy that crashed right into her and knocked her off balance, slamming her into the wall behind her. Her head connected sharply with the rock, and the hit left her winded and dazed, her vision spotting.

The strange comprehension hadn’t left her—in the back of her mind, she took note of what he’d said.

_Force. Balance._

She was pulled sharply back into focus by the sound of booted feet rushing toward her; the draugr was charging towards her now, a greatsword that still looked wickedly sharp raised high and clutched in his bony hands.

She barely moved out of the way in time. The sound of the draugr’s enormous sword hitting the stone wall beside her went ringing through the cavern, and it Shouted another blast of energy at her that she only just managed to avoid as she went leaping out of the way.

It devolved into a dangerous fight for her, in which she didn’t have many options. Her sword was useless against the full set of steel armor that the draugr wore, and the combat was too close for her to dare trying her bow. She had to stay constantly on guard to avoid her opponent’s punishing blows; one good hit could be enough to finish her, depending on where it landed. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the enemy’s sword had been enchanted to deal frost damage—the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees, just from him swinging it around.

Her only advantage was her speed. Centuries of decay had made the draugr stiff, and it was impossible for him to match her pace. He had the deadlier weapon, but she had the superior reflexes, and as she gave him the runaround on the platform, an idea took shape in her head. It was risky, without a doubt. But what other choice did she have?

‘Hey, Corpse-Breath! I don’t have all day!’

She yelled at the draugr, taunting him as she skirted out of the range of his blade, and then she ran towards the edge of the platform. The staggering corpse snarled and gnashed his teeth, before he chased after her as fast as his withered legs would carry him.

When she got to the top of the crumbling stone staircase, she whirled around and watched him advance on her. The timing had to be just right, or her plan wouldn’t work.

Merrin held her ground as he closed the distance, didn’t flinch as he raised his sword. She let him get closer than he’d been since the first strike, the one that had almost run her through. And at the very last second, she dodged to the side.

The force of the draugr’s wild swing made him stagger as he lost his balance, and he teetered over the edge of the steps as Merrin ducked around him. With a roar, she planted a foot in his back, and kicked him forward with all her strength, sending him toppling down the crooked stone stairs.

From there, the fate of the battle was decided. The draugr had been a formidable opponent, but his armor was useless as he crashed against the stones, and she could hear the snapping and crunching of brittle bones as he went flying down the steps. By the time he came to rest on the cavern floor, he was nothing but a torso and a head, his arms and legs in shattered pieces around him, his greatsword pinned uselessly underneath him.

It was said that the draugr felt no pain, and it was easy then for Merrin to believe the stories; this one glared up at her balefully from the hard stone floor, seeming unperturbed at the loss of his limbs. She had to dodge another Shout as she ran down the steps, and when she raised her sword up over his head, he snapped his jaws and growled at her just as fiercely as he had when he’d first clambered from his tomb to attack her.

She brought the sword down and gave it a twist, and the eyes went dark, the body finally still.

She only took a moment to collect herself, reining in her thundering heartbeat. Then she straightened up and looked around. She kept her sword out just in case, but nothing else came crawling out of the stone to challenge her.

She found the Dragonstone tucked away in the inside of the draugr’s sarcophagus, and she wasn’t terribly impressed; it was an old stone tablet with its etchings nearly completely eroded, and when she tried to make sense of the writing, she couldn’t. She wrapped it in a roll of old linen before she slid it into her pack for safe keeping, and then turned her attention to the ornate wooden and iron chest.

She was _much_ happier with what she found in there—a dagger enchanted to absorb your opponent’s stamina, a handful of garnets and amethysts, and several magic scrolls that looked like their wards were still functional, even after all this time. Her financial situation was looking up...she just had to find an interested buyer, after she’d given the Jarl his Dragonstone.

With everything worth taking packed into her rucksack, Merrin turned her attention towards finding the nearest exit. She knew from the one other Sanctum she’d seen that there would likely be an exit nearby.

After a minute of searching, she found what she wanted; she climbed another even longer, steeper staircase, and at the top of that staircase was a hidden lever. When she pulled the handle, a section of rock came rolling away to expose the twisting stone tunnel behind it.

She ran down that tunnel, and when she finally reached the end, warm afternoon sunlight hit her face, and she was greeted once again by the sounds of the forest.

 

 

The sun was setting over Riverwood as she pushed through the door to the Trader.

Lucan’s eyes lit up when she pulled the claw from her rucksack, and she couldn’t help but smile.

‘Oh, Mara’s Mercy, you actually _did_ it! You got our claw back,’ he crowed, rounding the counter to meet her.

‘Those bandits won’t be bothering you again,’ she promised.

‘I just can’t believe it,’ he laughed, eagerly taking the claw from her and running his hands over it reverently. ‘I’m going to put this back where it belongs.’

The golden claw got place of pride on the Trader’s wooden counter, and he stood there satisfied, hands on hips, just staring for several moments. Then he turned to her, smiling, and shook his head.

‘Oh, Camilla will be so happy to see our claw returned. Just _wait_ until that girl gets home. Now,’ he held up a finger. ‘About your reward. Hang on just a second!’

He went running upstairs, and returned a minute later, holding a bag of septims.

‘I’m a man of my word,’ he said matter-of-factly. And then placed the entire bag of coin in her hand.

Merrin stifled a sigh of relief, and her face split into a grin; with money like this, she could afford food, lodging, _and_ repairs, and could figure out what she should do next. Combined with her reward from the Jarl and whatever she could get for the gems and scrolls, it would probably be enough to ride the ferry back to Morrowind.

‘Thank you, friend,’ Lucan said heartily. ‘Thank you so much. It’s good to know there are still reliable people kicking around in this province.’

 


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I just want to take a moment to thank all of the people who have checked out my story so far, and especially those who have followed the updates. It means a lot to me! As always, I am open to all remarks and criticism. Feel free to talk to me!**

**I also want to make use of this note to let readers know that from now on, I'm going to be aiming for more of a weekly update.**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

 

****

She’d decided not to stay the night in Riverwood, and by the time she’d made it back to Whiterun, night had well and truly fallen. The businesses had all closed for the day, the dinner hour was past, and people were settling into their homes to enjoy the rest of their evening.

She hadn’t figured that the Jarl would appreciate an interruption this late in the day—and after the time she’d had in the Barrow, _she_ wasn’t much in the mood to see _him,_ either, let alone his insufferable wizard. So instead of passing through the Wind District and making her way to Dragonsreach, she’d made for the Bannered Mare.

Hulda had looked surprised to see her, but had welcomed her inside all the same, beckoning her towards the bar; Merrin had taken one of the stools there, tucking her rucksack between her legs, and had ordered a bowl of beef stew and an ale. The tavern had been far from empty, with a group of rowdy people huddled on the benches around the fire, all drinking and singing badly off-key. But she’d been the only person sitting at the bar, and she’d been able to eat her dinner in relative peace.

She’d paid for the same room she’d taken the night before, and Hulda had pursed the money and smiled at her. ‘You know your way upstairs, I trust. You have yourself a good night.’

As soon as she’d locked the door behind her, she’d stripped her armor off as quickly as she could manage, tossing her detested boots into a far corner of the room, and had stuffed her knapsack holding the Jarl’s Dragonstone and all of her recently acquired valuables under the bed and out of sight. Then she’d snuffed all the candles and thrown back the red quilt, falling exhausted into the bed with all of her clothing still on.

She’d slept for a long time, well into the morning, and had woken to the sounds of a lively drumming song and people talking and laughing downstairs.

At some point during the night, she’d wiggled her way out of her clothes, and she’d needed to redress herself before she could retrieve her knapsack and don her armor. She’d groaned and cursed as she’d put everything on; after all the fighting at Bleakfalls, every muscle she had felt tight, and most of her body felt sore and bruised. She should’ve healed herself some more before she’d gone to sleep.

The serving girl had approached her when she’d headed downstairs, and she could see that the breakfast crowd was still going strong. But she’d smiled politely and waved her off, slipping through the painted wooden doors and out into the sunshine.

And now she was climbing the long staircases up to Dragonsreach and doing her best to ignore her weeping muscles, to present the Jarl with the Dragonstone.

When she came into Balgruuf’s sweeping throne room, she found him sitting at the head of one of the banquet tables, engaged in conversation and eating a late breakfast. He was talking to a burly blonde that looked to be some kind of relative, and further down the table sat three children of varying ages, two of them looking sullen as they picked at their food.

After a moment, Balgruuf noticed her, and he pushed back from the table to stand as he greeted her. He was wearing fur-trimmed robes that denoted his stature in a dark blue that brought out his eyes, and he looked pleased to see her this time.

‘Hail, good woman! You return from your journey to Riverwood. Tell me, were you successful in your task?’

‘I was.’ She bowed her head as she approached the table, and ignored the curious stare of his relative and the bored speculation of the children as she swung her knapsack off of her shoulder. ‘I have the Dragonstone for you right here.’

‘Excellent, excellent!’ His eyes lit up and his face broke into a smile as he rubbed his palms together excitedly. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

She withdrew the Dragonstone obediently from her pack and placed it into his waiting hands, while Irileth glared suspiciously from where she stood nearby. He unwrapped the linen eagerly, but when his eyes finally fell on the old stone tablet, his brows furrowed, and he looked confused.

‘This...is what Farengar sent you to bring?’

‘Yes. That is the Dragonstone of Bleakfalls Barrow.’

He squinted his eyes at the grey block of stone, and then after a moment he looked up at her. ‘I’m happy to see the job finally done. And you will be rewarded, as promised. But I confess, when Farengar announced that he needed the stone for his studies, I figured it would be more...legible.’

She wasn’t sure what his response would be if she actually agreed with him, so she just nodded and kept her tone neutral.

‘Hopefully your wizard can make sense of it. Maybe it will still be of use to him.’

‘That’s my hope as well. But I’ve kept you waiting long enough.’ He tossed the linen carelessly back over the stone tablet and handed it to her. ‘You should bring the Dragonstone to Farengar now, and see what he makes of it. Come to me for your payment when you’ve finished.’

With that he sat down again and returned his attention to the blonde man seated beside him, resuming their conversation as he reached for a pastry. The children went back to looking dissatisfied, and playing with their food.

She had reached the threshold of Farengar’s study when she realized that somebody else was with him. A woman in full leather armor stood beside him, her face shrouded by a dark hood, and they were discussing something animatedly. They were bent over an open book on the desk, and were so involved in their discussion that they didn’t notice her standing there. Merrin hung back, not wanting to intrude.

‘You see? The terminology is clearly First Era, maybe even earlier.’ Farengar was speaking, and he sounded genuinely excited—nothing like the pompous, disdainful man she’d met.

‘I’m convinced this is a copy of a much older text, perhaps dating back just after the Dragon War. If it does, I could use it to cross-reference the names with other, later texts.’

‘Good.’ The woman beside him sounded brusque, and not nearly as excited at whatever they were studying. ‘I’m glad to see you’re making progress. My employers are getting.. _anxious_ , to have some real answers.’

Farengar waved a hand at her words, clearly unconcerned. ‘Have no fear. Balgruuf himself has finally taken an interest, so I’m able to devote most of my time to this research, now. It’s coming along.’

The hooded woman’s response came out sharper than before. ‘Time is of the essence, Farengar. You’d be wise not to forget it. This isn’t one of your hypotheses. Dragons have come back.’

A floorboard creaked as Merrin shifted her weight, and the hooded woman’s head snapped up at the tiny sound. She stared right at Merrin, and her eyes were glinting out of the shadows shrouding her face as she took her in—assessed her.

‘Farengar, you have a visitor.’

Farengar tore his eyes away from the book, clearly still deep in thought, and it took him a moment of staring at her before recognition lit his features. ‘Ah, yes. The Jarl’s protege.’

His voice was tinged with sarcasm, and she felt a wash of anger rise up to mingle with the prickle of embarrassment she felt at being caught standing there.

‘You’re back from Bleakfalls Barrow already?’ he continued. ‘It looks like you didn’t die, after all.’

She squared her shoulders and stood straight and tall, ignoring the pain that the motion caused her.

‘No, I didn’t die. The job was easy, as you said it would be.’

She’d be damned if he’d know what a difficult time she’d had getting the tablet from the Barrow, and she stared him down as she lied, showing no signs of weakness. Before he could reply, she walked right up to his desk, and placed the Dragonstone down in its linen with a heavy _thunk_.

When he uncovered the tablet and picked it up, his eyes went wide, and his hands were shaking.

‘The Dragonstone of Bleakfalls Barrow. I can’t believe you actually...’ his long tapered fingers gently caressed the tablet’s surface, and when he looked at her again, he had the decency to look humbled.

‘It seems you’re a cut above the brainless layabouts the Jarl usually sends my way. My associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. _She_ was the one who discovered the location of the tablet...although, so far, I can’t get her to divulge _how_ she did it.’ His voice was plaintive and long suffering, but neither woman responded in any way, and he cleared his throat awkwardly in the following silence. Then he tossed aside the linen wrappings and placed the Dragonstone down on the desk for the hooded woman to see—but the woman hadn’t taken her eyes off of Merrin.

‘You went into Bleakfalls Barrow and got this?’

There was urgency in the woman’s tone, like it was critically important that the point be clarified. Merrin only nodded, staring at her warily. Was this another person who would underestimate her?

But it quickly became obvious that the woman wasn’t interested in estimating her at all; she nodded slightly at the confirmation, and then straightened up from the desk to look at Farengar.

‘You’ve got work to do, and I’ll leave you to it. Just send me a copy when you have it deciphered. And remember—time is everything.’

Farengar assured her that he’d get started straight away, and then she swept out of the study without another word.

 

 

Merrin’s spirits were considerably higher than they’d been yesterday as she walked through the Wind District and towards the market—she hadn’t even felt the usual twinge of annoyance at the wailing sermon of the priest of Talos as she’d walked down the steps of Dragonsreach, informing her she was ‘naught but a maggot, writhing in the filth of her own corruption’.

After the hooded stranger had walked out, she’d been left alone in the study with Farengar, who had stiffly thanked her for a job well done, and suggested she see the Jarl about her reward. But instead of leaving right away, she’d looked at him again and opened her knapsack.

She’d told the court wizard that she’d found some items on her trip that he might be interested in, and that she was looking to sell, and had suggested that he look them over.

She wasn’t sure why he’d been so agreeable; maybe the scrolls and enchanted dagger really _did_ interest him. Or maybe he was worried about having another talk with the Jarl, if he tried to dismiss her again. Whatever his reasons might have been, he’d given her an exceptionally good deal on several of the items, and she’d walked away from his study with a considerably heavier purse than when she’d entered.

Combined with the gold she’d been given by the Jarl on her way out of Dragonsreach, she’d earned enough money to really expand her options.

She was no longer financially stuck in Whiterun. She had enough gold to hire a carriage to Windhelm, and to board the Northern Maiden for passage to Morrowind.

As she walked, her satisfied thoughts were interrupted by the growling of her stomach, and the sudden loud sound made her laugh; she’d skipped breakfast, and that combined with the flush of success had given her an appetite. So when she made it to the Plains District, she headed back into the Bannered Mare and took a seat at one of the wooden tables near the back. When the Redguard woman came over to her, she ordered a cheese and leek pie, and a tankard of the home-brewed mead to go with it.

The food came fast and it tasted delicious, and as she ate she settled happily into making travel plans.

She hadn’t been at it for very long when she heard the front door bang open, and the sounds of loud laughter reached her at the back of the inn. Three new patrons came walking towards her, talking and joking amongst themselves, and they sat at one of the benches by the fire pit.

Merrin looked up from her mead to watch them sit down, and she was surprised to realize that she recognized one of them. It was the Imperial woman with the long dark hair—one of the three Companions who’d fought the giant. It was a sudden shock to see her again, and Merrin found herself watching the three strangers closely as Hulda handed them tankards of mead.

The Imperial woman was flanked by a man on either side; a Dunmer in hide with a ponytail on one side, and a blonde Nord with a scraggly beard on the other. The three of them all seemed dusty and tired, like they’d been working hard for a long time, and they drank deeply from their tankards in the pause between sentences. But they were clearly all in very high spirits—laughing, clapping one another on the back. She surprised herself when she brought her own tankard to her lips, and started listening in to their conversation.

‘I don’t know, Tor.’ The woman laughed. ‘Maybe you _should_ start taking lessons from Athis. If you’d been moving just a _little_ slower, that second troll would’ve probably been picking his teeth with your bones by now!’

‘Listen to the lady, Torvar. Clearly, she’s of superior intellect.’

‘Oh, shut it, the both of ya.’ The blonde Nord signaled Hulda for another tankard of mead, and gave his friends an easy grin. ‘That troll never even knew what hit it—couldn’t stand the sight of all this Nordic glory.’

‘Oh, to be sure,’ the woman agreed innocently. ‘That must’ve been it. It had nothing to do with my sword in its back. Your _glory_ was just too much for it.’

The Dunmer burst into laughter again, and the woman grinned at the Nord as he cast her a sour look.

‘Cheer up, Tor,’ she said to him as Hulda handed him his fresh tankard of mead. ‘We’re all getting paid when we get back home. Those trolls won’t be bothering any more travelers. And you’re a boaster for sure, but at least you’re still not as bad as Vilkas.’

The Nord man snorted as he raised his tankard, and the sour look vanished as he grinned again. ‘You’re right about that. _Nobody_ boasts like Vilkas.’ Then he made his voice gruffer and significantly more accented, and his next words were obviously an imitation.

‘I think by now, I’ve killed at _least_ one of every creature in Skyrim.’

‘Maybe even Tamriel!’ The Dunmer had joined in the fun, his imitation considerably poorer, and all three of them lapsed into giggles.

Watching the three of them talk and laugh, Merrin felt a strange tightness gathering in her chest. For several moments she didn’t know what it was, and then it suddenly hit her: _loneliness_.

It had been a long time since she’d experienced anything like the camaraderie in front of her; she’d left her dearest friends behind at the same time she’d left Skyrim, and it had been years since she’d seen them. She’d made new friends in her travels, of course—it was hard not to, in her line of work, and some of those friendships were ones she’d cherish forever. But when it came to her _actual_ job...well...she did it alone. Watching the three Companions now made her wonder what it would be like to make a living amongst actual friends.

Clients weren’t the same thing at all. She thought of Dalan Dufont with angry disgust—and then a sudden stab of cold fear punctured the empty feeling in her chest. With an unsteady hand, she set down her mug. Dread started to seep into her like a tendril of poisonous fog.

It was actually the first time she’d thought of the Breton since they’d both been arrested by Darkwater Crossing, and she was hit with the sudden realization that she didn’t know what’d happened to him. She had no way of knowing if he’d died in Helgen; she’d overheard in the market this morning that Whiterun guards were still tallying up the casualties and sorting through the charred rubble.

She far from wished him dead, even though he _was_ a worm. But what would it mean for her, if he wasn’t? What if he’d managed to make his way back to Windhelm? Talked his way onto the Northern Maiden? He’d threatened to ruin her when she’d broken their contract—to drag her name through the mud with everyone he knew.

If she went back to Morrowind now, what would be waiting for her there by the time she arrived?

The Dufonts were some of the most important, influential non-Dunmeri in all of Morrowind; they had estates all over the province, and money to see them all maintained. Samuel Dufont was at the family’s head; the man came from old money, and even as an outlander, he’d been regarded favorably because of his family’s long-standing support of the Empire. His wife Elina was a prominent noble from Wayrest, and their union had doubled Samuel’s considerable wealth. Apparently they’d relocated to Blacklight in the year following their marriage, and Samuel had gone to work straight away; he was a smart man with a keen eye for investments, and he’d wasted no time investing in Morrowind. He’d poured his money into all of the fields that would capture the interest of the most important people. At first, the Houses had turned up their noses—they saw only an outlander, trying to buy respect. But one very important man took a shine to Dufont—Sidri Naalan Redoran, son of the head of House Redoran at the time.

Samuel and Sidri had forged a true friendship, and that friendship had opened inumerable doors to the Dufonts; in a short amount of time, the Breton man _was_ respected, and when Sidri’s father died in 163 and he rose to be the head of House Redoran, he took Samuel on as a trusted advisor. In a handful of years, Dufont had power on the three most important fronts: politics, trade, and military interest.

Today in 201, the name Dufont was institutional in Morrowind; Samuel and Elina had their hands in every pie, every lucrative trade, from textiles and tailoring to fishing and agriculture, to metalworking and stock bonds. They owned farms, banks, ports, vineyards, markets, taverns...they poured charity into Morrowind’s military muster, supported Dunmeri art and theatre, and made generous donations to hospices and shelters for the widowed and beleaguered every year. Sidri was still alive and well, and so was he and the Dufonts’ friendship.

And their family had taken strong roots in Morrowind over the following decades; Elina had given her husband seven children, all of whom had survived to adulthood, and all of those children had married well. So far as Merrin had heard, they were the proud grandparents of nine, and counting. Their hold on the province was all but unshakeable, and there was no end to their lineage in sight.

And by some malicious Daedra’s doing, _she_ was the sorry soul who had angered Dalan, Samuel and Elina’s youngest child.

The family’s social importance had nearly put her off, point blank—the only reason she’d ever agreed to take a Dufont to Skyrim was because the family had such a clean reputation. She had no way of knowing if Samuel’s exports had expanded over his years of prosperity to include the underground markets, or if Dalan had simply used his wealth and status to start a new limb of the family business all his own.

In the end, it didn’t really matter; there was one thing she was absolutely sure of. If Dalan wasn’t dead, then in all likelihood, he was doing his best to ruin her.

Several minutes passed in the Bannered Mare as this belated realization fully sank in for her; she gripped the table with white-knuckled hands, and hunched over her plate as her stomach did somersaults, threatening to toss the pie she’d ordered.

It was the sound of the Companions clambering to their feet and making their way towards the tavern’s front door that brought her back to the present moment. She lifted her head to watch them leave as they waved goodbye to Hulda, and the Imperial woman threw her arm around the Dunmer’s shoulders as they walked through the door. As she watched them take off she felt another pang of loneliness, even more acute than the first.

She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands.

_What in Oblivion am I going to do?_

Until now, Merrin hadn’t considered any option _other_ than returning to Morrowind and picking right up where she’d left off, and she considered that to be only natural—she’d been working hard at establishing herself for the last four years of her life. She’d worked back-breaking hours taking dangerous jobs, sometimes working for free to garner favors. She’d painstakingly built a foundation of clients who trusted her to do their jobs right, and a contact list of other mercenaries willing to give her a hand or somewhere to stay when she was in town. She’d forged lasting friendships in several provinces, some of which she expected to be life-long. She had struggled and clawed her way to a respected name, an honest income, and while it had been far from perfect, it had been hers.

She’d had no intention of losing what she’d built for herself. But if Dalan had made it back into Morrowind, she could already be in the process of losing it. Depending on his condition when he got there, it might be dangerous for her to even show her face.

Anger and despair speared through her in equal measure. She’d always been a confrontational person, and she had half a mind to go blazing back to Morrowind anyway, to try and defend her name. But enough common sense rattled around in her head for her to know that it likely wouldn’t do any good. She’d crossed an important family by tangling with Dalan Dufont; they had resources and connections she couldn’t hope to match.

She wouldn’t need any kind of income at all if she died with a Morag Tong’s dagger in her back.

She knew it. But the idea of just _giving up_ on the life she’d built rankled like rot in the pit of her stomach.

Merrin turned these thoughts over in her mind for long minutes, trying hard to be constructive in her anger. Suddenly, a new thought occurred to her.

Being in Helgen when that dragon attacked presented her with a unique opportunity. Because if she had no way of knowing if Dalan had survived...then _Dalan_ had no way of knowing that _she’d_ survived, either.

If he never found out one way or the other, or just assumed that the dragon had killed her...then what she had could be a new lease on life.

She was hit then by a flashing image of Ralof, the words he’d yelled at her as he’d dragged her from the executioner’s block.

‘ _Come on, Merrin! The gods won’t give us another chance!’_

And yet, they really had; in the form of a murderous fire-breathing lizard, Merrin had been given a chance to start a new chapter of her life, out of the possible ruin of the one she was standing in. The part of her that was stubbornly superstitious tingled as she thought about it—at the very moment she was to be executed, the first dragon seen in a thousand years had swooped down on the one _tiny_ village she’d happened to be in, and had saved her from a certain death. And the very next day...she’d received a _very_ unexpected offer to do something new with her life. Something she’d dreamed about as a little girl.

She thought again about the three friends she’d just seen talking and laughing, and there was definitely yearning in her chest as she considered Aela’s offer again.

But she felt like she was in a hopeless situation: it was a hell of a decision that’d been dropped in her lap, and she didn’t have the slightest interest in actually making it.

And so, she wrestled with it instead. For the rest of the day she sat at that table, ignoring all of the other patrons, occasionally ordering herself another mead. As she sat there staring into her cups, she mentally sparred with herself, twisting one way and then the other.

At first, there was only scorn; she berated herself, wondering how she could even think of dropping the career she’d painstakingly built. Several times, she worked herself up nearly to the point where she’d have shoved away from the table and ran through the city gates, throwing herself into the carriage waiting by the stables, telling the driver to take her to Windhelm.

But every time, she pulled herself back.

She paid to stay another night at the Mare, and Hulda looked at her with some concern in her eyes as she took her gold and wished her a good night. Merrin barely heard her as she trudged up the stairs, and she didn’t bother undressing or even turning the quilt down before she dropped face-down onto the bed.

With the help of the mead she found herself pulled into an only semi-fitful sleep, and while she slept, she dreamed.

At first, the dream was dangerous; she was fighting for her life against another dragon. This dragon wasn’t black like the one at Helgen—it was a deep royal blue, and instead of eyes, its sockets held carvings of the Dufont family crest. The dragon laughed as its fire came a hairs breadth away from searing her, and although a large crowd of people stood watching at her back, not a single one stepped forward to help her.

Merrin could feel herself slowing down—soon she’d be too tired to keep dodging the dragon’s fire.

Suddenly, the dream changed. From the crowd behind her she could hear shouting, and then the sounds of booted feet were rushing up to meet her. In another moment, she was flanked by three people; she recognized them easily as the Companions she’d seen drinking in the tavern. They smiled grimly at her as they raised their weapons, and turned to face the dragon head on.

‘Hold your ground, Shield-Sister!’ Aela had materialized out of nowhere beside them, and her voice was loud and fearless as she loosed an arrow from her bow that sank deep into the dragon’s chest; it shrieked in pain and reared up as they watched it, and instead of blood, golden Septims started spilling from the wound. With a mighty cry, the three other warriors jumped into the fray, descending on the dragon. And then everything dissolved.

For a moment, she floated in a pearly nothingness. She was still flushed from the heat of the dragon’s fire, but now she felt warm on the inside, too; just as she’d thought she was doomed, friends had rushed forward to fight at her side.

And then she was standing alone on the plain outside of Whiterun; green grass blew on a sultry wind, and small white clouds skidded across a magnificent blue sky. As she stared up at that sky, two eyes suddenly emerged from it, each one bigger than Masser, dominating the entire vista. They were lovely, almost the same blue as the sky they hung in, and ringed with smudged black circles. They stared directly at her, seemingly into her. As she stared back, transfixed, a deep voice came to her on the wind, shaking the ground beneath her feet, making her tremble as she listened. She’d heard the voice, once before—the same time that she’d seen the eyes.

‘ _Don’t be discouraged. Anything can be intimidating, before you know what it looks like.’_

 

 

When Merrin woke up the next morning, her scorn had melted into a sort of uncertain despair.

She still hated the idea of giving up on her mercenary work—letting go of what she’d built. But her initial rage had dampened some, and in the morning light she had to admit that there was no point in running to Morrowind. If Dalan had survived Helgen, then whatever was going to happen had already been set into motion, and she wasn’t going to be able to stop it. She could only ride it out and see.

And something about her attitude had changed while she’d slept. She could probably blame that on the dream. Suddenly, she wasn’t nearly so dismissive about the idea of being asked to join the Companions; if she tried just a little, she could still remember what it had felt like to have them standing all around her. Remembering it made her feel...warm.

But she was a long way from decided, and her mood was still foul as she came downstairs and snagged the same table she’d had last night. Not even a boiled cream treat for breakfast could do much to cheer her up.

As soon as she’d even really considered the _possibility_ of going to Jorrvaskr, she’d been hit with an uncharacteristic boatload of nerves. She was a confident woman—so why did she feel so unsure of herself?

Sitting there picking at the huge caramel, she could only think of two potential reasons.

Being a Companion was a childhood dream that she’d set aside for other things—and if there was one thing she’d come to realize in adulthood, it was that little girl’s fantasies rarely ever lived up to a grown woman’s reality. Especially in Skyrim.

The other reason was that, for Merrin, memories of the Companions were directly tied to memories of her father.

Not a day went by that she didn’t miss him...but usually she tried not to think about it. Today though, as she sat at the scarred wooden table, she let herself conjure him up clearly.

It was her father who had first started telling her stories about the Companions of Jorrvaskr, either from the pages of a book or his own memory. In no time at all, she’d been hooked; she would plead with him to stay up just a little later at night when he’d put her to bed, so he could tell her ‘just one more story’. On the rare occasion that he’d forge a battleaxe, it wouldn’t have even cooled all the way before she’d announce in her small high voice that its battle-name was to be Wuuthrad. And he’d always laughed, and humored her.

Their admiration of the Companions had been one of many things they had in common, and often as a girl she’d wondered about whether he’d ever wanted to join them; she’d worked up the courage to ask him when she was significantly older, and he’d given her a crinkly-eyed smile and confirmed it.

‘ _I don’t regret my lot for a minute. You know that. But...if I hadn’t ended up with you and your ma, I think I would’ve put down my hammer, and raised an axe with the Companions in Whiterun instead.’_

More than anything, she wished her father could see her now. She was wracked with indecision; would he approve, if he knew that she was considering joining the group he’d nearly joined himself? Or would he have wanted some different kind of life for her?

She snorted at herself the second she’d finished the thought—she already had her answer. Her father had been a soft-hearted man, and a protective one to top it. If he were still alive, he wouldn’t want to see her running around, swinging a blade and chasing honor. He’d want to see her settled down, married to a good man. Happy, and provided for.

She was yanked from her brooding reverie by an irritated voice nearby.

‘Hey, stranger. Are you just about finished your moping? It was getting old by last night.’

Startled, Merrin looked to her left, thoughts of her father dissipating. A tough-looking Nord woman in steel armor with her hair tightly plaited was sitting in an armchair and scowling at her. Before she could answer, the woman spoke again.

‘Yeah, I’m talking to you. The long face is damned annoying.’

Quick as always, anger flickered to life in Merrin’s gut, and she glared at the woman as she took her in. ‘Excuse me? Who the hell are you?’

‘The name is Uthgerd. Who are _you_? And what’s your gods-damn problem? I come here for the atmosphere, and you’ve been murking it up since you got here.’

Merrin hissed out an exhale. ‘My name and my problems are none of your business.’

The woman named Uthgerd put her drink down, and her eyes were smouldering when she shrugged.

‘If you say so—it doesn’t really matter. I think you should leave. Go and take your black cloud somewhere else.’

‘That’s nice for you, but I’m not going anywhere.’ She’d dropped her breakfast, and she could feel her hands balling into fists.

Uthgerd leaned forward in her seat, and now she wore a dangerous smile. ‘I could _make_ you leave, if you don’t see fit to move yourself.’

Merrin leaned forward too at those words, and she had to work to keep her voice even. ‘That’s big talk, from a total stranger.’

The other woman snorted. ‘Please. If I met you on a real battlefield, you’d be dead in six seconds or less. That’s not big talk. That’s truth.’

Merrin’s eyes narrowed to slits. It was the _wrong_ morning for someone to test her patience. ‘You really think that you could take me?’

‘I could take any milk-drinker in this entire city. _Bare-handed_.’ Suddenly her smile widened into a sort of feral grin. ‘You want to test the theory? One hundred gold says I can knock your lousy hide to the ground.’

It wouldn’t be her first brawl. It wouldn’t be her last. She shoved up from her seat at the table, palms still pressed flat to the old wood as Merrin met the woman’s challenging stare.

‘You’re on.’

The embers that she’d seen in Uthgerd eyes came blazing into full flame. ‘Alright then. Just fists. No weapons, no magic...no crying. Let’s go!’

Uthgerd had ripped off her steel gauntlets, and they’d gotten started. They began by circling each other slowly, each sizing the other one up. Hulda had been the first to notice, and the older Nord woman had only sighed; a girl with long white hair clutching a broom looked like she wanted to intervene, but the Redguard serving girl reined her in.

Merrin was the first to land a jab. Her knuckles connected painfully with Uthgerd’s jaw bone, and the big woman’s head went snapping back. But when she quickly refocused she only looked invigorated, baring her teeth in an expression that was downright feral, and she’d returned with a swinging haymaker Merrin had been forced to catch on the shoulder.

After that, a crowd of spectators had quickly formed, cheering one or the other on. When the table got flipped and Uthgerd’s drinks spilled everywhere, they only cheered more enthusiastically.

‘My money’s on the big one!’

‘Show her what we’re made of, here in Whiterun!’

It went on for a while, but eventually, most of the crowd grew quiet. The fight went on longer than anyone was expecting—probably because both women refused to lose—and people had started to titter uneasily as they’d kept on determinedly trading blows.

In the end, anger gave Merrin the upper hand; it fuelled her hits to be harder, faster, and it helped her ignore her many screaming injuries. Uthgerd had forgotten to block her face in the heat of the moment, and Merrin took advantage of the distraction. She felt at least one knuckle break as she landed a last punch to Uthgerd’s jaw. But it was worth the effort, and the pain—the older woman fell to her knees, reaching out to grab the toppled table as she fell, and roared in frustration as she slumped against the wood, whistling strangely as she breathed hard through her mouth.

Merrin wanted to scream her own triumph, but she held it back with a lot of effort. Instead she wiped the blood out of her right eye from where it trickled out of her busted brow, and gave Uthgerd a wild grin with teeth stained red.

‘I think I’ve earned that hundred gold.’

Uthgerd looked up at her, and Merrin was surprised to see that her anger seemed to have evaporated; despite an eye swelling shut and an obviously broken nose, she was smiling right back at her.

‘I think you’re right. I was wrong about you. Best fight I’ve had in years.’ The woman grabbed hold of a table leg and heaved herself painfully to her feet, ignoring a glare from Hulda when said table leg gave an ominous crunch. The white-haired woman reached out to help her, but Uthgerd waved her impatiently away.

‘Here.’ She slipped her coinpurse from her belt and made to count out Merrin’s coins, but this time Merrin shook her head.

‘Not yet.’ She pointed to her mangled face, using the hand with the broken knuckles. ‘It’s not worth standing around like this. Hang on.’

She didn’t want to piss off a room full of Nords by using her restoration magic. Instead, she went to her bag where it sat beside her forgotten breakfast, and pulled out a huge bottle of strong healing potion that she’d bought from Lucan in Riverwood. She yanked the cork out with her teeth, and then tipped her head back to taste the contents. Her nose and jaw were both brutalized, and at first she could barely force herself to swallow. But the potion was sugary and refreshing, and in a couple of seconds she started feeling its effects.

She drank deeply, not pausing to breathe, relaxing as she felt her scrapes knit shut, her swelling go down, and the bones of her knuckles click back into place. In the end, a little more than half the potion was more than enough.

She took a deep breath and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and then stared at Uthgerd as she offered her the remaining potion.

Uthgerd—not to mention several other people—looked exceedingly surprised at the gesture. But after a second she reached out a hand, and gingerly accepted the bottle. She too started downing the contents, and it was Merrin’s turn to watch as someone else healed; her nose made a funny popping sound as it clicked back into joint.

The woman drained the rest of the potion, and then awkwardly righted the table she’d been sitting at so she could set the empty bottle on its top. Then she opened her coinpurse and poured most of its contents onto the table too, staring at Merrin before she nodded.

‘You can take a good hit, and you’re honorable to boot—it would seem that you’re a real warrior. I’m sorry that I harassed you before. Sometimes I can be too hotheaded.’ The woman’s cheeks colored before she continued. ‘If you ever need another blade at your side during your travels, let me know. I’d love to see how you handle a few trolls.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Merrin answered faintly. Her mind was still caught on what she’d heard several sentences ago.

Uthgerd had called her a real warrior. And now her pulse was racing all over again—her stomach felt like it was full of Aldmeri champagne.

She’d been a sell-sword for four long years, and not once had anyone made that mistake. Not once had anyone applied the arguably much more glamorous title.

Hearing it applied to her now for the first time, it brought those childhood dreams unfurling like a flower to the front of her mind, and as she stood there she felt all of the previous days’ doubt crumbling to dust under a burgeoning wave of yearning and resolve. Her decision was being made right in front of her.

‘I need to go.’ She turned from the woman and broke through the loose crowd of dedicated spectators who had stayed this long, sliding her pack from the table and shouldering it, leaving her breakfast untouched. ‘Thanks so much.’ She nearly forgot to claim the gold on the table, and Uthgerd and several others looked plainly confused as she threw her coinpurse into her bag and rounded towards the door.

‘Any time. And your name was...?’ Uthgerd called after her, but Merrin didn’t stop to respond, and the doors to the tavern slapped shut behind her as she took off purposefully up the stairs to the Wind District.

She didn’t stop to talk to anybody, afraid that if she did, this new found resolve would crack and crumble; she didn’t even slow down until she’d reached her destination.

Jorrvaskr sat proudly in front of her now—the ancient mead hall of story and legend. It was a marvel of construction, with gracefully carved wooden beams, colorful stained glass windows, and a roof that looked like someone had simply topped the building with an upturned longboat. The rudders arched up proudly through the air, and were carved in the ancient Nordic style to depict dragons Shouting to the sky.

She’d purposefully avoided even looking at it in her journeys to Dragonsreach, and as she walked up an old stone staircase and under a sweeping arch, its beauty hit her for the first time.

As she placed a hand on one of the sturdy wooden doors, she suddenly saw that she was trembling, and she felt a stab of the earlier doubt and worry. But it was too late to turn back now; she’d had enough of indecision. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and pushed her way through the heavy door.

Merrin didn’t know what she’d find inside. But _whatever_ she found, she could rest secure in the knowledge that she’d chosen it.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter has been a long time coming, I know. I'd like to thank my readers for their patience, as well as for all of the love and positive feedback! It is greatly appreciated. The next chapter WILL be released on schedule.**

**This chapter and the next were actually supposed to be ONE chapter initially, but it was just so long in the end that I had to split it into parts. I hope everyone enjoys it! As always, feel free to let me know what you think!**

 

 

The _first_ thing that Merrin found on the other side of the heavy wooden doors seemed to be a fist-fight. 

 

As the carved oak closed behind her with a thud, she saw several people leaving their seats at a long wooden table shaped like a horse-shoe in the centre of the room; they were rushing to stand and watch a scuffle happening far across the hall. As she stood there uncertain about what she should do, she heard a sigh, and then a gruff voice calling out nearby from somewhere to her left.

 

‘By the Nine, are those two at it _again_?’

 

Another male voice farther away chuckled, and responded. ‘When are they ever not?’

 

Feeling almost as if she were trespassing and wondering if she should just come back later, Merrin walked on stiff legs down a set of burnished mahogany stairs. She skirted around the end of the long table that opened into a fire-pit providing heat and light for the room, and walked up an identical shallow staircase that led to the far side  of the hall where people were gathering.

 

As she  walked, she looked furtively around for somebody who looked like they might be in charge, and although she recognized a couple of faces—the Imperial woman who’d been at the Mare and her blond friend most likely named Torvar—she didn’t see anybody who really seemed to  be a leader. Then she cursed inwardly as she suddenly realized that Aela had given her no actual description of the Harbinger—she’d have to ask around for him.  But now hardly seemed like the moment to  try .

 

S he had a good view of the fight, now; could hear it perfectly, too.

 

‘Is that really all you’ve got? When did you turn into such a little bitch?!’

 

‘Oho, just you _wait,_ you little _s’wit._ This time, I’m gonna— _oof!’_

 

She could recognize the man who’d just been talking. It was Athis, the Dunmer who’d come into the tavern with Torvar and the Imperial woman. His red hair was falling out of its ponytail and his war-paint was smudged—likely on account of being hit in the face. His words had been abruptly cut off by his opponent’s fist driving into his gut.

 

Said opponent was a woman, surprisingly short for being a Nord, with the lightest platinum blonde hair Merrin had ever seen and warpaint the color of fresh blood slashing across her pale cheeks. She was already smiling triumphantly despite the fight having just gotten started, and when Athis staggered away from her, she tipped her head back and laughed.

 

‘Oh, come on, Athis. At least _try_ to make this a bit of a challenge!’

 

‘Ignore her, Athis!’ The Imperial woman was standing just in front of Merrin, and she’d cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted to be heard over the cheers and jeers of the other warriors around them. ‘Just focus!’

 

Athis shook himself then, and he seemed to take her advice seriously, because he threw himself back into the fight with renewed determination. They started trading blows back and forth, and Merrin couldn’t help but wince; the Dunmer was of a typical lithe build, and barely even armored, and the woman pummelling him was an incredibly hard hitter. What he held over her in speed, she made up for with sheer brute strength. And she seemed fiercely determined; even the Dunmer’s most punishing blows got little more out of her than a grunt or a curse while she shook off the pain.

 

Seconds passed like minutes for the onlookers, and Merrin was actually biting her lower lip when she felt a hand grab her by the shoulder and pull her aside. She whirled around, ready to throw her own punch if she needed to—but she immediately recognized the woman in front of her.

 

Aela stood there smiling at her, and there was obvious warmth in her jade green eyes as she looked Merrin over with approval.

 

‘Aela! I didn’t see you when I came in.’ She lowered her hands back down to her sides and jerked her head back at the Nord and Dunmer, who were now rolling around on the flagstone floor. ‘Why isn’t anyone breaking this up?’

 

The red-head snorted. ‘What, those two? This is an average Fredas for them. Also an average Loredas, Sundas, Morndas...’ she started ticking the days off on long, slender fingers.

 

‘Alright, alright, I get the picture.’ She thought about the state of her own face twenty minutes ago, and winced. _Who would fist-fight for fun every day??_

 

Aela laughed at Merrin’s expression, and then she crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin as she regarded her.

 

‘So, you’ve come to us after all. I had a feeling you’d be showing up.’

 

Merrin was sure that the other woman caught the faint grimace that she tried to repress before she answered; that was a whole lot of confidence, over someone who hadn’t at all been sure she was even showing up.

 

‘I still can’t really believe this is happening. And I don’t know that your Harbinger will think I have what it takes. But I’ve decided that I want to try.’

 

Aela’s smile turned into a grin as she nodded. ‘That’s the spirit. You should head downstairs and talk to Kodlak. See what he has to say.’

 

Her voice was loud and confident when she spoke, and it suited her; Merrin had known her for mere minutes, and already couldn’t imagine her sounding any other way.

 

‘Speaking of Kodlak, you never told me what he looks like. How will I know which man to talk to?’

 

‘Turn right when you get downstairs, and just keep walking until you run out of room,’ Aela replied. Her deep green eyes were intense as they stared. ‘And as for Kodlak, you’ll know him when you see him. They call him White-Mane—he tends to stand out.’

 

Nerves were sizzling back to life in her stomach, making Merrin angry with herself, and she didn’t want this woman to see them. She averted her face from the red-headed warrior, looking instead in the direction she’d pointed to.

 

‘Then I guess I won’t waste any more time. I’ll head downstairs and—’

 

Their conversation was abruptly drowned out by the sound of wild yelling behind them, and Merrin spun around again.

 

The platinum-haired Nord had picked Athis up and thrown him onto one of several wooden end-tables lining the wall. The table gave an ominous cracking sound as he crashed down onto it, and before the Dunmer could get his bearings, she delivered a punch to his gut so forceful that the table broke beneath him and he tumbled to the ground.

 

More than one onlooker groaned sympathetically as the Dunmer curled into a ball, clutching his stomach and making hacking noises. The Nord woman stepped forward, looming above him, and she quirked a pale brow as she raised her fist. Athis saw her and threw a hand out to stop her.

 

‘Alright, alright Njada. That’s enough!’ He groaned, returning both hands to where her last hit had landed. ‘I’m done.’

 

The woman he’d called Njada curled her lip up in a feral kind of snarl. ‘Yeah you are, milk-drinker. Now pay me what you owe me.’

 

The blonde man named Torvar shoved past another spectator and bent down to offer Athis a hand, and the Dunmer took it, struggling painfully to his feet. Scowling, he yanked a bag of coin off of the nearest end table and tossed it at her chest. Then he leaned on Torvar as he hobbled away, muttering under his breath as he went. Njada had caught the bag of coin, and she smiled gloatingly as she weighed it in her palm, calling out to Athis’ back.

 

‘Let me know the next time you’re feeling tough!’

 

It was then that Aela took Merrin by the arm and turned her around again, looking amused. ‘You can go and talk to Kodlak. You’re not missing anything up here.’

 

Merrin wasn’t sure she agreed, but she nodded at her and turned to leave.

 

‘Oh, wait. Before you go.’ Aela was looking at her curiously again when she turned her head.

 

‘I’ve forgotten to ask you before now. What is your name?’ She cracked another wry smile. ‘I can’t just keep calling you stranger.’

 

‘My name is Merrin.’

 

Aela cocked her head to one side, hair shifting like a flame around her shoulders. ‘I like the sound of that. Well, Merrin...good luck.’

 

She only nodded in response before she turned away, and finally started walking across the long, airy room.

 

 

 

The underground portion of Jorrvaskr opened up onto a long hallway made almost entirely of cobbled stone, with a rounded ceiling about ten feet high. No windows existed to let daylight inside, so the way was lit by regular sconces, clusters of candles on wooden side-tables, and intermittent chandeliers whose braziers were made of hollowed-out goat horns. A long red rug with strands of gold woven through it ran the entire length of the hallway to warm up the stony facade, and banners of a similar shade were hanging in intervals down the right wall. The left wall was a different story; interrupted only by the odd doorway, it was covered almost entirely in shields, affixed to the wall in an interlocking phalanx. There were easily hundreds of them, in all different states of repair—an endless sea of detail.

 

Looking at them suddenly made a lump rise to lodge in Merrin’s throat. She didn’t need anybody to explain the shields’ significance to her—she knew without being told.

 

There must have been a shield here for nearly every Companion who had ever lived in this mead hall. Every shield was a permanent mark...an enduring sign that a warrior had lived there.

 

She felt a strong urge to walk right up to the shields and start inspecting them more closely. But after wavering for several seconds, she held back; she’d come down here to speak to the Harbinger, and she needed to see it through. Taking Aela’s earlier directions, she turned to the right and started walking down the corridor.

 

Everything was washed in flickering shadows and golden candle-light, and she found herself soaking in the hall’s atmosphere as she walked. Despite being underground and made of stone, there was nothing unwelcoming about the space around her—it was obviously tended by loving hands, and actually felt homey, and she decided immediately that she liked it there. Cracked porcelain jugs full of tundra cotton and blue mountain flowers sat resting on every table she passed, and when she saw a plate of boiled creme treats sitting next to one of them, her stomach growled loudly, making her long for the breakfast she’d abandoned.

 

_Focus! Focus!_

 

She’d passed a set of hallways branching off to her left and right and was coming up onto a set of closed wooden doors that were elaborately carved, with blue stained trim. She figured this had to be the right place, since she couldn’t go any further.

 

As she walked up to the closed doors, she heard two male voices—one mellow and rich, the other rougher and heavily accented.

 

‘I know you do, my boy. As do we all. It is our burden to bear...but we can overcome it.’

 

‘You have my brother and I, obviously. But I’m not sure the others will go along with it.’

 

‘You just leave that part to me.’

 

This was obviously a private conversation, and Merrin didn’t want to intrude, so she lifted a hand and knocked resolutely at one of the wooden doors. The moment she made her presence known, both speakers fell silent. And then she heard the first voice that had spoken calling out to her.

 

‘Enter.’

 

She pulled open the door, and walked into a kind of study; this was clearly an academic man’s space. The left wall was dominated by a tall bookshelf crammed with heavy tomes, and a dark wooden desk with a map of Skyrim pinned to its surface. To her right was a display case, with an ebony sword resting on the velvet inside, and further down, another set of closed wooden doors.

 

The room was still cozy, with rugs scattered over the stone floor and another chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, bathing the room in warm light. More red banners hung fluttering on the walls, but she realized with a start that these were different; instead of just a simple design, each one depicted Wuuthrad, embroidered in shiny golden thread. The mighty axe of Ysgramor was unmistakable, even just on a tapestry, and somehow seeing it there made the entire situation feel more real to her.

 

She looked dead ahead last, at the men in the room. There were two of them, both Nords, sitting at yet another table, with a dish of pie and goblets of wine perched on the wood between them. Her gaze was drawn first to the man on the left, and looking at him made her start with surprise.

 

He looked uncannily like the enormous man she’d met in the field outside of Whiterun; she could tell right away that it wasn’t him, but they were so similar, he must have been a relation. Still, there were several differences.

 

The arms that were crossed over his chest were less burly—in fact, he seemed to be leaner in general, and maybe shorter, too. He had the same dark brown hair, but it was chopped at his jaw, not at his shoulders, and it was piecier somehow, as if he’d cut it himself. His face was _very_ similar, but leaner, with a longer chin. The most striking difference was in the eyes; they were ringed in the same sooty kohl and were almost the exact same shade of silvery blue, but that was where the similarities ended. There was no warmth in these eyes as they regarded her; where the man she’d met had seemed friendly and welcoming, this man’s stare seemed to push her away, and he looked on her with an open suspicion that instantly put her on the defensive.

 

Looking at him made her suddenly realize that she hadn’t seen his lookalike anywhere, either in the mead hall _or_ the living quarters, and the realization filled her gut with unexpected disappointment. Trying to keep her mouth from twisting, she turned her gaze away from him and looked at the other man in the room.

 

Instantly, she knew that _this_ was who she’d come to speak to—this man could only be Kodlak White-Mane, Harbinger of Jorrvaskr. He was a large man, who radiated a sort of elegant composure, and just as Aela had promised, he stood out; he had a thick head of unruly white hair that gleamed in the candlelight, and an impressive beard to match, with both of them sporting several small braids. Under the beard was a handsome face with chiseled cheeks, tanned by the sun and lined with age. The right side of his face sported a swirling Nordic tattoo that covered his cheek and trailed down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his armor.

 

His eyes were a stormy grey that suited his looks—but the second she looked into them, she realized that something strange was happening.

 

He was staring at her like she was a ghost, in absolute astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Merrin couldn’t think of any reason why he would stare like that, and her brows furrowed as she opened her mouth, to ask the man if he was alright. But he spoke before she had the chance.

 

‘You’ve come.’

 

The words were a wondering whisper, full of awe. He stared at her that way for a split second longer, but before she could react in any way, the strange moment passed; he smoothly schooled his rugged features, and the light of amazement left his eyes. His companion had turned to look at him sharply, but the older man ignored him, and his gaze turned keen as he assessed her.

 

‘A stranger comes to the mighty hall of Jorrvaskr. Tell me, girl. What brings you to the home of the Companions?’

 

Her stomach was doing uneasy flips as she held his silvery gaze. Why did he seem to recognize her? Had he been expecting her, somehow? In the wake of that bizarre moment, she wasn’t sure what to say; when she finally unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth, her voice came out sounding uncertain and it made her want to kick herself.

 

‘I...are you Kodlak White-Mane?’

 

‘Aye, that’s me.’ He was looking at her expectantly now. ‘What can I do for you?’

 

Merrin steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and standing up straighter, determined not to sound as nervous as she felt. She spoke again, and was pleased this time when her voice came out strong.

 

‘Aela directed me to you. I wish to become a Companion.’

 

‘You do, do you? Hmm.’ His entire demeanour shifted then; his stormy grey eyes took on a hint of a sparkle, and he lifted his chin as he leaned forward in his chair. ‘And what name do you go by?’

 

She cleared her throat, and introduced herself for the second time in five minutes. ‘Merrin Hakonsdotter, sir.’ She knew he hadn’t asked for a surname, but she felt compelled to give it anyway.

 

The Harbinger nodded intently at her words, and then rested his chin on his steepled fingers as he eyed her. ‘Come a little closer, and let me have a look at you.’

 

Merrin hurried to do as he asked, stepping forward until she was only a stride’s distance from him. As she walked, she could feel the other man’s gaze on her as well, but she kept her eyes on Kodlak.

 

As she came to a stop in front of him, she felt suddenly self-conscious; too aware of the wild tangles in the hair hanging loose around her face, and of the shabby condition of her scavenged armor.

 

She couldn’t identify the reason why, but something about the older man staring at her both intimidated her _and_ made her want his approval, all at the same time. There was something wise and knowing in those hooded silvery eyes, and despite the fact that she was in her thirtieth year, a part of her felt like a little girl again as she submitted herself to his scrutiny.

 

Such a thing would normally just get under her skin and make her angry—but the anger was strangely absent now. Something about the smile spreading over his face kept her spine from stiffening.

 

He looked her over for another moment, and then made a low humming sound as he cleared his throat. His eyes returned to hers before he spoke again.

 

‘Yes...perhaps. I can see that you possess a certain strength of spirit. We’ve always valued that, here.’

 

Merrin opened her mouth to respond, but the other man in the room cut in and beat her to it.

 

‘Master.’ He sounded incredulous, disbelieving. ‘You’re not truly considering accepting _her_ , are you?’

 

The irritation that had been curiously absent went rushing through her with a vengeance then, and she scowled as she turned her head to look at the stranger who clearly had a problem with her. When her eyes landed on his face, she saw that he wore an expression not unlike her own, and the two glared silently at each other, sizing one another up.

 

As far as she could tell, he didn’t look like he could be much older than she was, but she knew that didn’t mean very much. He was no pushover, that much was obvious; his build attested to long hours fighting, and the fact that he was sitting there spoke of his credentials. Worse, she noticed then with another start that he and the Harbinger were wearing the exact same armor—a steel set with a carved wolf head on the breast plate—and it made her wonder what his station was amidst the Companions. Was he someone she would have to take orders from?

 

Kodlak spoke then, cutting into her unpleasant train of thought.

 

‘Vilkas, your manners!’ he chided with a laugh. ‘And you know full well that I’m nobody’s master. But the last time I checked, Jorrvaskr still had plenty of empty beds for those with a fire burning in their hearts.’ His eyes flicked back over and landed on her, still glaring at the younger man. ‘I have a feeling she more than fits that description.’

 

The man named Vilkas looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment he seemed to rein himself in; he exhaled sharply, and most of the heat left his gaze. His expression took on a sullen quality, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and flat.

 

‘Apologies, Kodlak.’

 

_Oh, apologies to Kodlak? Just to Kodlak??_

 

‘But perhaps this isn’t really the best time,’ he continued. He waved one hand toward her and then let it drop, unmistakably dismissive. ‘I’ve never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.’ He said her name as if it tasted sour, and Merrin gritted her teeth as she felt seeds of dislike for him start to take root in her chest.

 

Neither man was looking at her for the moment, and Kodlak shook his head as he eyed his subordinate.

 

‘You know that doesn’t matter. Sometimes the famous come to our halls—other times the nameless turn up at our door, looking to _make_ their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.’

 

‘Don’t forget their arm,’ was Vilkas’ grumbled reply.

 

‘Of course, of course.’ Kodlak leaned back into his chair as he turned to look at Merrin again. ‘It’s plain to see that you’re in good shape, girl. What did you do, before you came to us?’

 

Her problem wasn’t with Kodlak; so far, he’d been nothing but respectful of her. She did her best to shove down her anger, and kept her voice level when she answered him. ‘I was a sword for hire.’

 

‘Ah, a mercenary.’ He smiled. ‘You’d be far from the first to join our ranks. And how are you in battle?’

 

‘I can handle myself.’ It was difficult not to throw a glare Vilkas’ way, but she managed.

 

Kodlak seemed to catch her flare of temper, and his smile widened as his grey eyes twinkled. ‘That may be so. We’ll have to see.’

 

Merrin forced herself to relax; this was what she’d come here for. ‘Of course. You have a test for me?’

 

He nodded, eyes still twinkling; he was all but a stranger, so she couldn’t be sure, but she could’ve sworn it was a twinkle of merry mischief. ‘Vilkas here will test your arm.’

 

Instantly, she stiffened, and the dark-haired man across from her did the same, like a mirror image. He was clearly bitterly regretting his earlier comment about newcomer’s skill, and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands as his shoulders hunched up to practically meet his ears.

 

Kodlak turned to look at him, apparently oblivious to their obvious discomfort.

 

‘Vilkas, take her out to the yard and see what she can do.’

 

‘But Kodlak...’ His voice was a blend of irritated and entreating, like he was going to beg Kodlak to reconsider.

 

Merrin fumed; she had no idea why someone who didn’t know a thing about her would be so vocally doubtful of her skills. And she had no way of knowing what he was about to say, but she felt like she could safely assume that it was going to warm her up to the idea of hitting him with something.

 

Whatever he’d opened his mouth to say, Merrin never found out; Kodlak tilted his head and hit the younger man with a look that spoke volumes, so stern that it brooked no argument. After only a brief hesitation, Vilkas sighed roughly, his shoulders slumping, and gave a single defeated nod.

 

‘Aye.’

 

The Harbinger nodded back at him, satisfied. ‘Report back to me and tell me how she fares. I’ll trust your opinion on her skill to be honest and impartial, as always.’

 

Vilkas only nodded again, and then he pulled himself up out of his chair and strode purposefully past her, not waiting for her to follow. Merrin thanked Kodlak for seeing her as quickly as she could, and then rushed after him, dread pooling in her stomach like molten metal.

 

As she caught up to Vilkas, her thoughts were awhirl, and she found it difficult not to panic.

 

Why on Nirn would Kodlak expect this... _s_ _keever_ to be honest about her skills?! He obviously had some sort of problem with her. Why wouldn’t the Harbinger just come and watch her test for himself?

 

Vilkas said nothing as she caught up to him, and she had nothing to say to him, so they walked in stiff silence down the rest of the hallway and up the stairs to the main floor of the mead hall.

 

Other Companions had retaken their seats at the main table after Athis and Njada’s fight, and several pairs of eyes now tracked them with interest as Vilkas led the way across the room. Still without uttering a word, he slipped through what she assumed were the back doors; she had to work to keep her hands from balling into fists as she caught a door and made to follow him, and she could hear curious murmurs coming from the room behind her as she slipped outside.

 

She’d been right about the doors leading to the back side of the mead hall; as she passed through them she found herself entering a sort of patio space, with a vaulted ceiling made of wooden pillars and slats that let the sunshine through, and a collection of rickety old tables to sit at. Vilkas had marched beyond that point, into what she could tell was the training yard; the practice ground was cobblestone worn smooth from centuries of sparring. Jorrvaskr’s backyard butted up against the city’s wall, and practice dummies were lined up along the worn grey stone. One of the city’s lookout points was just off to the right, and an alcove jutting out from the wall gave an excellent view of the valley below. Just to the side of the lookout post was a ranged target for shooting practice—good incentive, when a couple of inches one way or the other meant keeping your arrow or hurling it out into the valley.

 

When her gaze returned to Vilkas’ back, she realized she wasn’t scared—her nerves had evaporated in the face of his underestimation. Now, there was only the desire to prove herself; to wipe the condescending look off of his face. When he finally turned around to face her, her expression was calm, and she steadily met and held his gaze.

 

‘Alright. The old man wants me to test your arm, so let’s get this over with.’

 

He’d grabbed two wooden practice swords from where they’d been leaning against the far wall, and he tossed one to her as she walked to close the gap between them. It sailed through the air before she caught it neatly, and when she looked back over at him, he snorted—as if he’d been hoping it would hit her in the face.

 

‘I want you to try and land some hits, so I can get a feel for your skill. Are you familiar with point-system sparring?’

 

She eyed him for another moment before she answered curtly. ‘Yes.’

 

He must not have bought her answer, because he opened his mouth and started explaining anyway, as if to a disobedient child.

 

‘We’re going to be using these practice swords to try and get successful hits in. A successful hit is any good blow to a vulnerable area—head, neck, underarm, thighs, tendons...that kind of thing. A successful hit gets you a point, which is acknowledged vocally when you hit it. Understand?’

 

‘I understood before you said anything,’ she snapped.

 

He made no response to her obvious irritation, his gaze landing on her unoccupied hand. ‘Do you use a shield?’

 

‘No. Never have. It’s not my style.’

 

He snorted audibly in response, and muttered something quietly that sounded suspiciously like _‘figures’_ as he shook his head. Her anger surged like a hot spew in her chest, but she forced it down. Remained collected.

 

‘Alright then, might as well begin. Come at me, do your best to hit points. And don’t worry.’ He smirked at her then. ‘You’re not going to hurt me.’

 

How had this man ended up so insufferably cocky? ‘We’ll see about that.’

 

His only reply was to raise his shield at an angle close to his chest, and prepare the wooden sword to strike. She smoothly took a stance of her own by slipping into a cross guard—a move that would help lessen the obvious disadvantage she was at, fighting a shielded opponent.

 

And then began the slow circling. It was plain to see that the man in front of her was not at all serious about this fight, or about her. His weapon and shield were readied, but there was no tension in his body, no analysis in the eyes that swept over her. She didn’t let it bother her; soon enough, she’d make him regret it.

 

Suddenly she heard the sound of the back doors opening behind her, and several people filing through them, and she whipped her head around.

 

Several of the people who’d been watching Athis and Njada’s fight were now apparently intent on watching hers; many of the people she’d seen when she’d come into the mead hall were now taking chairs at the rickety tables, eyeing her appraisingly and talking among themselves.

 

‘It’s been a while since we’ve had a good testing to watch.’

 

A balding middle-aged man in plainclothes had spoken, and he sounded enthusiastic as he looked at her. In response, there was a barking sort of laugh from a man sitting at the next table over—a slightly older man, with a short silver pony-tail and a jagged scar ripping over a milky-white eye. He was also staring at Merrin with the eye that could see, and he seemed amused.

 

‘Best calm yourself, Brill. No saying yet that this testing will be a _good_ one, either.’

 

‘Don’t judge too quickly yourself, you old burr.’ Aela was standing just behind the gruff-looking warrior, and despite the casual way she leaned against the back of his chair, her eyes were fixed and gleaming on the two opponents, watching every stride. ‘I have a feeling about this one.’

 

Her attention was yanked forcefully from the group of people watching her by the feeling of a practice sword slashing over her thigh.

 

‘Point.’

 

When she snapped her head back around, Vilkas’ steely blue eyes were on her face, and he gave her a sardonic smile as he waved his wooden sword in an arc through the air.

 

‘You’ve already broken rule number one,’ he said, his tone oddly triumphant. ‘Never look away from your opponent.’

 

She gritted her teeth, trying not to glare. ‘Relish it. It’s not going to happen again.’

 

Merrin appraised him in earnest now; his form was undeniably excellent, and his guard was all but watertight, despite his lack of interest. If she was going to best him, she’d need to trip him up.

 

So she wasn’t ceremonious about it—she feinted quickly to his right, and aimed a flicking slash right for his unguarded face.

 

A reckless or inexperienced fighter would panic, and throw their shield up to catch the attack, leaving themselves open to all sorts of others. But Vilkas was clearly neither; he leapt neatly back, without so much as moving his shield, and let the wood whistle by an inch from his face.

 

She drew back just as quickly as she’d come, calculating.

 

She’d been truthful in what she told him; in all her years fighting, she’d never used a shield—had never even liked the idea. That meant that she’d need to make him misuse his, or else she wouldn’t be able to touch him, let alone best him. Without a shield, she couldn’t bash, couldn’t plow her way in, couldn’t shove his defenses aside. And had no way of countering if _he_ decided to try any of those things.

 

She’d have to rely on precision. Speed. Good form and footwork. She’d have to make him work against himself.

 

So Merrin picked up the pace; she started to force him to move around more, and took short, quick swings at his sword-arm that he had no choice but to counter.

 

After several seconds of quick jabbing and parrying, she got what she wanted; she swung high as if to hit him in the head or neck, and he caught her sword from below, swinging it violently down and around in a wide-arcing deflection. She used the momentum he’d contributed to, and there was nothing he could do as she lunged forward, slashing her wooden sword across his inner thigh, jumping away again before he could strike back.

 

It was tit for tat, and the irony clearly wasn’t escaping anybody—a few hoots of laughter could be heard from behind them, and Vilkas looked nothing short of affronted as she tipped her head to the side and shot him a smug smile that she couldn’t hold back. ‘Point,’ she said, with mock sweetness.

 

After that, things picked up speed. It became quickly clear to her that Vilkas was as prideful as she’d perceived him to be—and competitive, too. After she landed that hit, all of the indifference left his steely eyes, and he responded in a way that said ‘ _Now I’m participating.’_ He started initiating his own blows, and they came fast and hard, forcing her to compensate.

 

The moves were a dance she’d been practising for years, and as their speed increased and the stakes rose higher, her focus narrowed until all she knew was him—her opponent, the push to her pull, the cause to her effect—and in this focus she found a strange sense of ease. She no longer heard the murmurs of the crowd behind them.

 

Before long, they were a whirlwind of determination, and the sound of wood striking wood rang out across the training yard, punctuated with the grunting of exertion. The two of them turned out to be pretty evenly matched, a revelation neither party was happy with; Merrin was faster and lighter on her feet, and could take more risks because of it. But even though she was a strong woman, Vilkas was stronger; he kept grinding through her cross-checks, and on the rare occasion that he managed to bash her with his shield, she paid for it.

 

And they were scoring points on each other—a feint too slow resulting in a jab to the ribs, an ambitious side-roll ending in a slash to the tendons behind the knee.

 

The only word they said to one another was ‘point’, whenever one was scored. But somewhere along the way, the fight had become personal for both of them; each time someone said it, it was in a tone slightly more ferocious than the last time, and the one little word was crammed with all of the various others left unsaid, but keenly felt.

 

She chalked his animosity up to a bad attitude and too much self-importance...but _she_ had something to prove. Her acceptance into the Companions likely hinged on this. And she was determined to make him eat his underestimation—raw, with no seasoning, if possible.

 

Then came a turning point in the fight. When they were at seven and six in Vilkas’ favor, Vilkas swung out at her free arm, and as she was crossing herself to parry the strike, he landed a punishing blow to her shoulder with his shield, so fast she could only watch it come.

 

She yelled in pain as the shoulder wrenched horribly, and she went flying back from the impact of the shield. He advanced on her, sword poised to strike, and she had to scramble immediately to her feet, while spectators exclaimed at her back.

 

The shoulder was finished for now—it would need healing later, and she couldn’t continue the fight using it. She gingerly tried to roll it, and cursed before quickly letting it drop again.

 

She looked up then at her opponent. Vilkas was breathing hard from exertion, and his eyes were alight with obvious triumph; he clearly believed he’d won.

 

Merrin snorted. ‘I’m not done yet.’

 

And she took her sword up into her other hand.

 

Vilkas let out a snort of his own, looking incredulous. ‘Come now, have some dignity. Know when to admit that a fight is over.’

 

Anger flared in her once again, and she replied in her flat, unyielding way.

 

‘When this fight is really over, we’ll _both_ know it. Now come on.’

 

Vilkas looked shocked as she advanced on him, and very soon, he looked unhappy as well; a left-handed opponent was the bane of most warriors, and for good reason. With two right-handed fighters, the match had symmetry, and reliability. A set of patterns. Against a left-handed opponent, every pattern was turned upside-down, and a man was left scrambling.

 

He parried her first strike imperfectly, and raised his voice over the excited shouting of the people behind them, watching this new development unfold.

 

‘You have two sword arms?’ He was scowling readily now, and sounding offended, and it evoked a fierce smile from her in return.

 

‘I told you a shield wasn’t my style.’

 

He let out a sound close to a _harrumph_ , and the match resumed, Vilkas redoubling his efforts.

 

He was losing ground, and they both new it; Merrin’s left hand wasn’t her dominant one, but she was more than proficient. She kept her injured arm tucked close to her body, and was no slower on her feet for it. Vilkas had to work much harder to anticipate her reversed movements, and as they fought she kept a hawk-like vigil for his mistakes.

 

She stayed up in his space as much as possible, hampering his use of his sword, and it wasn’t long before he started making them; he tried to bash at her again and she stepped neatly out of his way before jabbing at his extended underarm, evening out the score.

 

‘Point.’

 

The spar ended at the first to reach ten points, or the first to disarm. With seven points each, it was creeping close, and the tension he’d been lacking at the start of the match was rolling off of him in palpable waves. He decided to try something new then, and lunged abruptly forward with his shield primed ahead of him and his sword angled down towards her from over top of it.

 

She knew the move well—in Morrowind, they called it the Goring Boar—and with no shield, her only recourse was to get out of the way.

 

Her injury was tiring her, sapping her energy, and she barely made it out of his way before he barrelled through the air she’d occupied, spinning her body to angle away from him. In those moments she was completely open for attack, but he couldn’t capitalize on them. In the end, his own momentum tripped him up again—she whacked him non-too-gently on the back of the head while he was still facing away from her.

 

‘Point.’

 

He snarled in reply. It was plain to see that he was angry; when he whipped around to face her again, two spots of livid color stood out high on his cheekbones, and his eyes were as hard and as cold as gems.

 

_Somebody’s not used to losing, I see._

 

After that, he changed his strategy—he closed up completely. He took two full strides back from where he’d been, putting distance between them, and reverted to his initial game; all defense, as opposed to offense.

 

After a couple of dead-end jabs, Merrin hissed through gritted teeth. She knew what he was trying to do: outlast her, so that her injury burned her out, and he could swoop in when she was too tired to fight. What kind of victory was that?

 

_I have to get him to take a chance._

 

Eyeing him solidly, she adjusted her plan. Her shoulder was throbbing, and her breath was coming hard; she didn’t have much time to work with.

 

She began a series of feints and jabs. At first, they were all well done, the same as she’d been delivering throughout. In response, he watched her carefully, doing as little as he could get away with, blocking all of her attempts to reach him.

 

Then, slowly, she started getting a little sloppy; getting a little too close to him, being a little too slow when she backed away, and letting her form sag into flaw. Exactly how a person would look if they were falling to an injury, and getting exhausted.

 

After a few tense seconds of analysis, Vilkas re-engaged. He started trying to hit her with efficient jabs, that would do what was necessary if they managed to land. She waited as long as possible before dodging them clumsily, and before long, the fire of frustration had re-ignited in his eyes.

 

_Yes_ . Feeling her legs start to cramp, she ramped up her efforts. She started feinting in even closer to him now, leaving herself open from several angles, and leaping back just out of his reach at the last possible moment, so that she could feel the wind from his sword on her skin. It was a gamble she was taking; many of those swings came within inches of her injured arm, and if one of them landed, she’d be sorry.

 

More and more she taunted him, and farther and farther he swung his sword in his attempt to strike her. Both of them were sweating profusely  now  under the summer sun,  and his teeth were gritted and bared as he growled again in frustration.

 

Finally, he took the bait.

 

Merrin went hopping back from this last poorly executed feint as quickly as she could, and Vilkas lunged after her with his sword close to fully extended, letting out a strangled cry as he went.

 

It all hinged on how she executed the next moment. Ignoring the screaming of her arm and legs, she jumped to the left as his sword entered her space, managing to evade his slashing arc. In the same fluid moment, she used her own sword to chop down past his guard, and strike his naked wrist as hard as she could.

 

There was a definitive  _crack_ as her sword connected, and then it was her opponent’s turn to yell out in pain. Vilkas’ hand fell open with a jolt, and his practice sword fell to the ground at his feet—it was a successful disarm.

 

For a second, the only sound around was their ragged breathing. He dropped his shield and clutched his injured wrist, staring at the sword on the ground as if he couldn’t believe it was there. Then he looked up at her.

 

Merrin was staring coolly at him, restraining the urge to jump and scream at her victory.  That kind of display  would lessen the impact of her victory, with someone like  _him_ . Instead, she shot him a smirk of her own, as smug and self-assured as she could make it.

 

She was remembering his earlier words,  and the distaste in his voice, letting them  both  wash  over her  in her moment of triumph.

 

‘ _Perhaps this isn’t the best time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.’_

 

Then she lifted her chin in defiance, and spoke in a voice that was cool and flat.

 

‘Well, you’ve heard of me _now_.’


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I have news! I made a twitter account for fun, affiliated with this account and my account at FFNET! AO3 is great, but it can be har to share multi-media stuff, and that's what the twitter account will be for! Head to twitter and find me at @gwap_queen00 if you'd like, for jokes, memes, stories, theories, debates and more for all things Skyrim & Dragon Age! Also, an abundance of pictures of my cats, haha.**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

 

‘Come on, Ria, stop fussing. I’ll be _fine_. I swear, you worry too much.’

 

Athis let go of the neck of his mead bottle, and made a half-hearted attempt at swatting away his friend’s fluttering hands. ‘It’s feeling better already. It’s just a bruise.’

 

The Dunmer was laying on his bed in the whelps’ room, his back propped up against several pillows. He was already into his third bottle of mead, and the effects of the drink had relaxed him considerably; he wasn’t as sore as he’d been when his two closest friends had propped him there, and he no longer saw what the fuss was about.

 

The mead had been Torvar’s idea, and he made a somewhat blurry mental note to thank him for it later.

 

But the Imperial at his side hadn’t had any mead, and the look she was shooting him with dark brown eyes was just a hair short of mutinous.

 

‘It’s _not_ just a bruise, you idiot.’ She slapped his shooing hand away, ignoring his indignant _‘hey!’_ , and returned her attention to the mer’s exposed torso. She was daubing salve onto an angry purple bloom that was swathing its way across his abdomen, looking swollen, livid even against his dark skin.

 

‘And I worry about you _because_ you don’t! You don’t take care of yourself. Who else is going to keep your dumb ass alive?’

 

The Dunmer laughed, and she rolled her eyes. Athis had gone to bed willingly enough—but as soon as their idiot friend had suggested that a bit of mead was all he needed, he’d been impossible ever since.

 

‘If you won’t do the smart thing and drink a potion, then you _will_ at least sit here while I put this on.’ The woman dabbled in the healing arts, and she kept a jar of the waxy yellow salve in her chest of drawers for situations just like this.

 

‘Ria, you’re a sweet one. But you go to too much trouble.’ He let his head fall back against the closest pillow, and stared a little glassily at the ceiling. ‘Everything will be fine, with or without your fancy goop.’

 

‘No.’ She replied crisply, swiping the bottle of mead while he wasn’t looking and setting it on the ground. ‘Everything will be _fine_ when you get your _head_ on straight, and stop inviting Njada to maul you like a cave bear.’

 

The Dunmer scoffed. ‘ _Pfft!_ Njada? Please. Everyone knows she just got a lucky hit in.’

 

‘Hmmm.’ She sniffed. ‘Guess she just got lucky the last...what, seven times in a row? I’m thinking you maybe overestimate your abilities, Athis. Just a _tiny_ little bit.’

 

The two had been friends long enough that she had no qualms over speaking her mind, and she ignored the elf as he shot his head up to look at her again.

 

‘ _Woman!_ You wound me!’ His face took on a tragic expression that was only half jesting, and he groped around on his mattress for his bottle of mead. After a brief and fruitless search, he gave up, and threw the hand over his brow instead. ‘I lay here with a beaten body, and what does she do? She beats my pride.’

 

The Imperial shook out her long hair and snorted again. ‘More like your ego!’ She had another retort on the tip of her tongue, but her train of thought was interrupted by the door to the living quarters blasting open outside, and the sound of heavy footfalls racing towards the whelps’ room.

 

Before either of them could so much as furrow a brow, the door to their quarters went flying open too, hitting the wall with a bang.

 

It was Torvar standing in the threshold, looking absolutely _giddy_ with excitement.

 

‘Torvar—what—?’

 

‘You are not gonna _believe_ what you sorry sops just missed! I can hardly believe it!’ The scruffy blonde was shouting to the room at large, despite it being just the three of them there.

 

She crinkled her nose as she looked at him. ‘Huh? What are you talking about?’

 

Torvar’s eyes gleamed as he cracked a grin. ‘Honestly, Athis, you’re gonna wanna kick yourself. You’ve gotta stop asking Njada to hand you your ass. It makes you miss out!’

 

The Dunmer’s red eyes lit up with indignation. ‘For the love of—you _too_?’ He made a rude hand gesture at the man in the doorway before dropping his head back against the pillow. ‘Snakes, the both of you.’

 

‘ _Torvar_.’ Ria’s dark brows were arched, her tone impatient. ‘ _What_ are we not going to believe? Spit it out!’

 

Everyone knew Torvar was a gossiping hen—as bad as the old women in the city. It was plain from the look on his face that he was enjoying being the bearer of big news. After another second’s pause, he finally opened his mouth.

 

‘You saw the gal who came walking in while dumb and dumber were whaling on each other? Tall, dark, foxy? Ended up talkin’ to Aela?’

 

‘Yeah...’ Ria rolled her eyes, ignoring Athis spluttering beside them ( _who are you calling dumb, Nord?!_ ) and shrugged her shoulders. ‘What about her?’

 

It was as if he were timing himself to a silent drumroll. ‘She came ‘cause she wants to be one of us! You just missed her bein’ tested.’

 

Ria looked at him, confused, and then _tsk_ ed with annoyance. ‘Really? That’s all? Why’d you come slamming the door open like a maniac, then? I’ve been trying to clean up this mess _you_ encouraged.’

 

She jabbed a hand in the direction of Athis’ stomach—or maybe just Athis as a whole. People came asking to join the Companions on a regular basis, seeking glory. Few were actually accepted. In her opinion, the news was hardly worth the fanfare.

 

Her reaction clearly wasn’t what Torvar had been looking for; he visibly deflated some at her lack of excitement, and threw his hands up in the air, looking harried.

 

‘No, come on, you don’t _get_ it! A few of us went out to watch the match, like always, y’know? And I came to tell you you missed out, ‘cause she was actually _good_.’ His eyes were already gleaming again.

 

‘Like, _real_ good. I think she’s gonna make it in.’

 

He’d said the magic words, now; her interest was piqued. She put a hand on her hip and stared at him.

 

‘For real?’

 

She was the newest recruit they had, and had been for five months. She’d quickly befriended the two men beside her, and they’d been happy to show her the ropes. They’d also included her in one of their favorite past-times—watching and laughing at the various people that came looking to make their names and fortunes, when they got soundly beaten in their testing.

 

In all the time she’d called Jorrvaskr her home, they’d only had _one_ other promising recruit—and he’d ended up changing his mind.

 

_This_ reaction was more like it—Torvar grinned at her again as he crossed his arms over his chest.

 

‘For real. But you haven’t even heard the best part.’ With his audience now properly engaged, he paused one more time for effect.

 

‘Vilkas was the one who tested her.’

 

She took a second to absorb this news, and then _she_ was the one breaking into a grin. ‘Wait...are you serious? _Vilkas_ tested her...and she was really _good_?’

 

Vilkas was an established member of the Circle; he was far above any of them, in rank. But he was also infamously known as the most stubborn, prideful, arrogant person in all of Jorrvaskr. Not that his skill didn’t _warrant_ it, but...making fun of _him_ was another favorite past-time. Probably for more Companions than would admit it.

 

She snorted a laugh. ‘I bet his ego can hardly bear it.’

 

‘Oh, definitely not.’ Athis had re-joined the conversation, a sly smile spreading across his pointed face. ‘We all know he revels in handing out humility.’

 

‘No, it’s even better that that.’ Torvar was so excited, his voice had risen back up to a gleeful shout.

 

‘You guys, she kicked his _ass_!’

 

 

One of the men behind her let out a long, impressed whistle. Somebody else laughed and clapped their hands together, once, twice. A chair went scraping against the cobblestones, and then the wooden door opened and slammed shut as somebody hurried through.

 

She didn’t turn around to look at her audience—she didn’t turn away from Vilkas.

 

He was looking like he was having difficulty controlling himself.

 

His chest and shoulders heaved as he breathed deeply through his nose, in and out, nostrils flaring like a stallion’s. His mouth was clamped tightly shut, like he was holding in a string of curses, and his eyes were wider than they’d been during the fight—despite his deeply furrowed brows—and more than a touch wild as he stared at her. His stance was rigid, and he was clutching his injured wrist in a way that looked like it would hurt more than help.

 

She had no idea what to expect from him next—clearly, he’d taken the loss just as personally as she’d taken the win. She stood still where she was, out of easy reach, eyeing him warily.

 

They stayed that way for what seemed like an endless moment, sweating under the hot sun, neither of them saying anything.

 

And then he surprised her by visibly gathering himself.

 

The bulk of the tension eased from his body; the wolf on his breastplate stopped bobbing around as his breath settled, and his brow smoothed over as the wild look seeped out of his piercing eyes.

 

When he spoke, his voice was clipped and stilted, his mouth still held in a stiff sort of way, and his eyes were still hard, like he was trying to cow her.

 

‘Very well. That’s enough. You’ve performed adequately. I’ll report to Kodlak shortly as to how you did.’

 

Merrin nodded once, curtly, and then looked down again to the wrist he still continued to clutch; his eyes followed her gaze, and when he saw where it landed, he abruptly pulled his hand away. The skin of his wrist was already swelling up and reddening. When she looked back up, two matching red patches on his cheeks had returned.

 

‘So what happens now?’ She kept her voice as reserved as his; her gut was stirring with fresh curiosity and excitement, but she had no plans to let him detect either.

 

As she spoke, the remaining people murmured among themselves behind them, before collectively pushing away from their tables and filing back inside, leaving the two of them alone in the yard. She turned her head to watch them go; Aela was the last to leave, and she shot Merrin an approving smile before she glided through the door.

 

‘You’ve passed your first test.’ He took another slow breath, eyes boring into hers when she turned back to face him. ‘Which makes you a whelp. And that means you have work to do.’ With his left hand, he reached around himself, and started to unbuckle his sword-belt from where it hung at his hip. When he slid the belt off and thrust his sword at her, scabbard and all, a ghost of his former cockiness had rekindled in his face.

 

She ignored the sword-belt and narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. ‘What did you just call me?’

 

‘A whelp.’ He shot her an antagonistic smirk. ‘It’s what all the new blood around here gets called. Best get used to it.’

 

Furious words came leaping up her throat. But she bit her tongue to smother them, and only hit him with a glare.

 

‘Now,’ he continued, ignoring her mutinous expression. ‘My _real_ sword needs sharpening. Take it up to Eorlund Gray-Mane, at the Skyforge. He’ll know what to do with it. And don’t drop it—this blade is probably worth more than your hide, several times over.’

 

He shoved the sword-belt into her good arm, and spun around on his heel, taking off towards the mead hall without another word. When he made it through the wooden door, he slammed it shut behind him.

 

It was her turn to stand there steaming, at a loss for words. _Who did this asshole think he was?!_

 

She glared venomously down at the sword in her hand, as if it had personally done her wrong, and then out at the mountain vista beyond the city wall. She was now all alone in the training yard; for ten whole seconds, she contemplated just marching over to the look-out post, and pitching his sword over the wall and down into the valley below.

 

Then she mentally shook herself. This Vilkas may have been a pompous creep...but she still wanted to be here. And it seemed like he was calling at least some of the shots.

 

Breathing through her nose to try and calm herself, she started across the training yard. Around the far side of the mead hall was a curving stone staircase carved from naturally jutting rock, and as she started climbing the worn stone steps, she tried to push Vilkas’ stupid face from her mind.

 

She wasn’t having much success. But when she reached the top of the steps and looked out ahead of her, a chunk of her anger evaporated all on its own.

 

She was staring at a legend.

 

Across a well-kept stone pavilion, the Skyforge spread out in front of her. Spearing up from the forge itself was a resplendent phoenix carved out of stone, standing at least fifty feet tall; mighty wings spread as if about to take flight, its face both regal and impassive as it stared out into the cloudless blue sky. She couldn’t figure how, but the eyes of the magnificent bird themselves were two balls of burning flame.

 

Below, through the holes connecting its massive wings to the mountain they’d been carved from, large spaces gave a breath-taking view of the valleys below them, and the mountains beyond, lush with summertime. The forge itself lay at the mighty bird’s feet; the far rim was clutched in long, brutal talons, giving way to a circle of stone raised from the rest of the pavilion. Bigger than any forge she’d ever seen, let alone used, it glowed red and white-hot, like the maw of a dragon, and fiery sparks went leaping into the air in cascade, chasing spirals of greyish smoke.

 

Merrin clutched the sword, her shoulder forgotten; her father had been a fanciful story-teller, and yet the forge in front of her lived up to his description of it—surpassed it. Her stomach lurched as she drank it all in, breathless, and the smith in her’s fingers itched with the urge to pick up a hammer and tongs. She’d dreamed for years of using a forge this fine.

 

It took several long moments for her to come out of her reverie, and remember she wasn’t alone there. Beyond the forge sat a more modern work-space, and _another_ legend was currently sitting with his back to her, working at a grindstone.

 

The massive Nord sat hunched over his work in nothing but breeches and leather boots; he was bare from the waist up, and despite the famous smith’s considerable age, his back was still broad, his arms still formidable, and work-hardened muscles rippled with exertion as he tended to his work. Even from a distance, she could see that a sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his long grey hair hung down around his face and shoulders in ropy strings, soaked from the summer sun and the heat of the forge.

 

As she stood staring at him, he straightened up suddenly in the worn wooden seat, swiping at his brow with a sooty forearm, and turned his face to catch some breeze. In doing so, he saw her in the corner of his vision; right away, he got to his feet, and turned to get a proper look at this stranger on his steps. He used one enormous hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and called out to her.

 

‘Hail, girl. What brings you here?’

 

Merrin took a sharp breath in. The voice that called out to her was rich, and booming, and heavily accented. The famous Eorlund Gray-Mane was talking to her.

 

_You can’t just stand here gawping, idiot._

 

Swallowing hard on a fresh flutter of nerves, she started walking quickly towards him.

 

‘H-Hail.’ Her voice came out high and a bit timid, and she repressed the urge to smack her own forehead.

 

The smith was even more commanding up close. The famous gray mane framed either side of a chiseled face, with a hard, square jaw only emphasized by a beard of the same steely color. He had rawboned cheeks made dark by the sun, and the deep-set eyes that regarded her were a dark and serious blue.

 

Overall he looked stern, but not unkind, and as he stared at her expectantly, she pushed herself to speak.

 

‘You’re...you’re Eorlund Gray-Mane, right?’ Her voice was only somewhat less shaky.

 

‘That I am.’ He either didn’t notice her visible nerves, or was too polite to comment on them. ‘And you are...?’

 

‘Oh.’ She took another breath, bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Ah...my name is Merrin. Hakonsdotter.’

 

He lifted a wild, bushy gray brow. ‘And what can I do for you today?’

 

His question pulled her back into herself, and she felt the weight of the sword in her hand once more. Remembering the sword made her remember its owner, and the breath she’d taken went wooshing out of her in fresh irritation. She straightened up, and looked at him without the nerves.

 

‘Vilkas sent me here with his sword. He says he needs you to sharpen it.’

 

‘That a fact?’ Something in the blacksmith’s expression lightened, and he looked at her now with some interest. ‘So, I take it that you’re a newcomer, then?’

 

‘You’d be correct. I just passed my testing now.’ She handed over the sword-belt when he reached for it, and then bit her lip. She had a question that she was nervous to ask—after a second of indecision, she asked it.

 

‘Does Vilkas always make the newcomers run his errands for him?’ Her voice betrayed some of her animosity, and she winced. Who knew how the man in front of her felt about the jerk?

 

But Eorlund surprised her by cracking a smile.

 

‘Oh, he tries.’ With practised ease, he unsheathed the sword from the scabbard, laying the leather aside, and started running his fingers along the blade’s edge.

 

‘Some of the more experienced ones like to try and throw their weight around. That boy fancies himself an authority figure. Always has.’ He looked back up to meet her eye, and his expression was warm and reassuring. ‘But they were all whelps once. Whether they like to admit it or not.’

 

His smile tugged out a smile of her own, and she uncrossed the arms she hadn’t noticed she’d crossed, letting them fall to her sides. ‘Is that right?’

 

‘That’s right.’ He held the blade up to the light and brought it close to his face, giving the edge a critical eye. ‘I’ve been ‘round long enough to see all of them newcomers. Fresh-faced, barely tested.’

 

‘Well, _he’s_ already started exerting his ‘authority’ over me.’ The sarcasm in her voice was thick, and she was surprised again when he let out a deep chuckle.

 

‘Let me tell you somethin’, girl. Doing favors for folks here can be helpful—get you favors in return, or even forge friendships.’ He put the sword down on a stone work table, and turned to face her again.

 

‘But nobody runs anybody, ‘round here. Every man—and woman...’ He eyed her pointedly. ‘Is in charge of themselves. You don’t owe anyone anything. Including Vilkas. Next time he asks you to do somethin’ for him, if you don’t feel like doing it, you remind him the gods gave him two legs that work.’ He smiled at her again, and his blue eyes twinkled.

 

She smiled back, much more easily this time. ‘Really? Thank you then, for the advice. I’ll...keep it in mind.’

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the vindictive part of her was already imagining the look on Vilkas’ face, and it made her smile widen.

 

Eorlund waved a hand at her. ‘Ah, don’t mention it. It’s nothing. You just looked nervous when I first saw you there. Figured I might help a bit.’

 

A rare blush crept over Merrin’s face, and she ducked her head. ‘Was I really that obvious?’

 

He only shrugged, saying nothing, and she could feel herself already taking a liking to the burly old smith. It was one thing to be skilled; it was another to be kind. She struggled again with some indecision, and decided again to be honest.

 

‘I wasn’t nervous about being a...newcomer.’ She flat-out _refused_ to use the word _whelp_. ‘I was actually nervous about meeting _you_. I, ah..I was raised on stories of the legendary Skyforge and Eorlund Gray-Mane—the greatest smith in all of Tamriel.’ She looked up at him, and gave a tentative smile. ‘Meeting you is a child’s dream come true.’

 

Now it was the older man’s turn to blush; ruddy color stained his cheeks, and his eyes were twinkling more than ever when he ducked his head to stare at the ground, waving his hands as if to shoo away her words.

 

‘Ah, nonsense. I hardly do a thing.’ His voice was gruff now where it hadn’t been, and he jerked a thumb at the Skyforge as he turned his back to her, suddenly busying himself with his tools. ‘It’s the forge that does all the work.’

 

She shook her head, still smiling. ‘No, really. You’re too modest. Your fame is wide-spread, and well-deserved. My own da was a fine admirer of your work.’

 

‘Oh, yeah?’ He hadn’t turned around to face her. ‘Bought my Skyforge steel, did he?’

 

‘No, no. He admired your _skill._ Your _craft_. My da was a smith himself, right up until he died. And I ran the smithy with him for years.’ That was _two_ people she’d told, in nearly as many days.

 

Eorlund went still, putting down whatever he’d been holding, and slowly turned around to look at her again.

 

‘That a fact? You’re a smith?’ He’d been staring at her with some interest before, but _now_ he stood there _assessing_ her.

 

‘I _used_ to be a smith,’ she corrected. ‘After da passed, I went and did other things.’

 

He let out a sort of rumble that sounded like approval, and shook his head as he continued to look her over. ‘Once a smith, always a smith, girl. Don’t forget it.’ He nodded to himself, and after another second, turned back around. She noticed that he’d continued working on the blade he’d been holding when she first got there, and left Vilkas’ sword to sit on the worktable. For whatever reason, this made her like him even more.

 

‘Oh, yeah? And what about you? How long have you been working the Skyforge? Longer than I’ve been around, for sure.’

 

He laughed again. ‘I’ve been tendin’ the forge more years than I care to count, by now. Long enough that I’ve seen several Harbingers come and go.’

 

Merrin’s curiosity was piqued. ‘And you’re not a Companion yourself?’

 

The smith snorted in response. ‘Me? Gods, no. This forge is a full-time job. I’ve got no time to be runnin’ ‘round the province.’

 

She could see that it was time to put the blade back to the grindstone, and as if he’d read her mind, he walked over in an absent-minded sort of way to ladle more water onto the rock. Then he sat back down on the little wooden seat, and shook his head.

 

‘No, I’m just a smith. None of them knows how to work a forge properly, and it’s my great honor to serve them.’

 

‘I see.’ She felt a sudden pang of self-consciousness—she’d been there far longer than she’d thought she’d be. She’d figured it would just be her handing over the sword and getting out of his way, and already she’d been up here a while. She didn’t want to wear out her welcome.

 

‘Ah...it was wonderful to actually meet you, Sir Gray-Mane. But I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’d better be heading back to the hall.’

 

He turned around to stare at her, nose crinkled, brow furrowed. ‘Sir? Ain’t nobody who calls me ‘ _sir’_ , girl. Just call me Eorlund.’

 

‘Oh. Er...alright then...Eorlund.’ To think, the world’s best smith would have her call him by name!

 

‘And before you go, I actually have a favour to ask.’

 

She tilted her head at him, eyes questioning.

 

‘I’ve been working on a shield for Aela. I’m not sure if you’ve met her yet? She’s one of the Companions. Tall, red hair, war paint?’ He slashed a hand in front of his face, fingers bent like claws.

 

‘I’ve met her.’

 

‘Yeah? Good. I finished the shield today, but I don’t have time to bring it to her.’ He dropped her gaze, looking down at the ground instead. ‘My wife and I are in mourning, and I need to get back home to her soon. I’d be much obliged if you could take the shield to Aela for me.’

 

‘Of course. I’d be happy to.’ The words were out of her instantly, completely genuine. She wondered who the smith was in mourning for, but didn’t dare ask.

 

He nodded. ‘Very good.’ He got back up to grab the shield—a sturdy looking piece made of hard wood and trimmed in steel—and when he looked at her again, he was smiling.

 

‘I thank you.’ He handed her the shield, and she shook her head as she took it with her good arm.

 

‘It’s nothing. I’m glad to help.’

 

She turned away from the smith then, and started back the way she’d come. She was a few steps away when he called out to her.

 

‘Hey. You said your name was Merrin, girl?’

 

She stopped, turned around, pleased that he’d remembered. ‘That’s right.’

 

‘Were you any good, with your father’s forge?’

 

Her heart gave a funny, fluttering thump, and the smile she threw him was bitter-sweet. ‘Well...by the time I lost him, he was calling it _my_ forge.’ How it hurt to remember.

 

He nodded, seeming pleased. ‘That’s good to hear. I don’t mean to be insultin’, but if you’re gonna be runnin’ with the Companions, you’re gonna be needin’ some better gear. Why don’t you come up in a day or so’s time, and show me what you’re made of? We can work something out together.’

 

Merrin’s mouth fell open. _Work_ in the Skyforge? _Touch_ the Skyforge? If only her father were still here.

 

‘That...’ she said faintly. ‘That would be great.’

 

His smile broke into a grin. ‘Thought so. Alright then, I’ll see you on the morrow. Go on.’

 

And he turned back to his work and started grinding.

 

She came down the stairs in a _completely_ different mood then when she’d climbed them; there was a spring in her step despite her many aches and pains, and she was actually _hugging_ the shield to her chest. A part of her felt like a little girl again—and all things considered, she didn’t mind. It made an appropriate sort of sense.

 

Her problems hadn’t gone away—not by a long shot. But out of a long week of things going wrong, she was starting to feel like she’d caught some sort of break.

 

She hurried across the training yard and slipped through one of the double doors, focused on her quarry; for the moment, she’d forgotten Vilkas, and was only preoccupied with finding Aela.

 

 

The mead hall was much cooler than the city outside, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she was enveloped by the wood and stone. She scanned the hall from end to end, but didn’t see Aela there—didn’t see _anyone_. So she took a right in front of the crackling fire, and headed for the staircase to the living quarters.

 

It was even cooler here, in the underground tunnel made mainly of stone, and the sweat on the back of Merrin’s neck chilled as she closed the door behind her.

 

It was then that she realized with a sudden pang of irritated nerves that she didn’t know where Aela’s quarters were; why was she always forgetting to ask after the important details? She sighed.

 

There was a door almost directly in front of her, its frame surrounded in shields, but she had no idea what room it guarded—further down the hallway, she remembered there’d been two branching hallways, going in opposite directions.

 

She hovered there, doubtful. Should she just start knocking on doors? It hardly seemed appropriate.

 

But it never came to that. As she stood there holding the shield and pursing her lips, a gentle voice came to her from down the hall.

 

‘Is there something I can help you with, dear?’

 

Merrin was startled, and turned immediately to see who’d spoken: a petite, somewhat frail-looking woman stood several paces down the hall, holding a broom in one withered hand.

 

She was obviously advanced in years; her small, pale face was deeply lined, and her wide mouth was shrivelled past its prime. High cheekbones led to sallow hollows beneath them, slightly sagging, and the short, straight hair that was tucked behind her ears was a blended mix of white and silver.

 

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting when she turned towards the voice, but it definitely wasn’t what she’d found. What was a tiny old lady doing in a mead hall full of warriors?

 

Several seconds had passed since she’d spoken, and the woman was looking at her expectantly. Merrin shook herself.

 

‘Um, perhaps. I’m looking for Aela’s room.’ She lifted the shield with the arm that wasn’t aching. ‘I’m supposed to bring her this, but I don’t know where I’m going.’

 

The old woman had covered the distance between them as she’d spoken, so that now she was standing within arm’s reach. This close, Merrin was struck by two things.

 

The first was the old woman’s size—or lack thereof. Everything about this woman was thin, from her arms, to her neck, to the bony fingers gripping the broom shaft, and the simple yellow dress she wore hung off her slender frame with room to spare. She was so short, that Merrin could easily tuck her chin over the top of her head.

 

The second was her eyes. Without a doubt, they were her dominant feature—where the woman was old, the eyes were still young. They were a brilliant sapphire blue, sparkling with warmth and vivacity, and they were full of intelligence as they held her gaze.

 

‘Ah.’ The woman’s lips stretched into a kind, knowing smile. ‘So you must be the newcomer, then.’

 

How did she already know there _was_ a newcomer? Merrin felt like she’d only been there ten minutes.

 

‘Yes...that’s me.’

 

The older woman reached out a hand; not wanting to seem rude, Merrin returned the gesture, doing her best to ignore the shriek of her shoulder. The woman’s bony hand was surprisingly firm, cool and dry to the touch as they shook in greeting.

 

‘Welcome to Jorrvaskr, then, dear. My name is Tilma. I work for the Companions.’ Her smile broke into a grin, and she chuckled. ‘Both cookin’ their meals, and cleanin’ up their messes.’

 

_Ah. That made sense._ She nodded down at the slender old woman. ‘My name is Merrin. Well met.’

 

The woman stopped shaking her hand, but still held it, and craned her head back to look her over, seeming pleased. ‘My, such lovely manners! I have a feelin’ the two of us will get along just fine.’

 

Cheerful friendliness rolled off of this woman in waves, and Merrin found herself smiling easily back at her. ‘I’m happy to hear it.’

 

‘Now.’ Tilma dropped her hand and grabbed the broom, leaning on it easily. ‘You said you were looking for Aela?’

 

‘That’s right.’

 

‘That girl makes her bed in a room down the hall.’ She twisted around to the hallway yawning behind them, and pointed one crooked finger to the opening branching left. ‘Take a left at the fork, and then another. That’ll bring you to Aela’s door.’

 

Merrin let out a grateful sigh. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’

 

‘Happy to help, dear.’ Her eyes twinkled merrily. ‘I hope you end up liking it here!’

 

She chuckled as she turned to go. ‘So do I. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

 

Tilma waved her off gaily, and then returned her attention to sweeping.

 

Without further ado, she straightened up and hurried away, taking the directions she’d been given; in no time at all, she was passing through the opening in the wall full of shields, and headed for a room with the door left open.

 

The warm glow of torchlight spilled over the floor, and she could hear voices, one female, one male. They were speaking low and she couldn’t make the words out, but the tone was quick and urgent.

 

She stepped into the threshold, rapping her knuckles against the frame at the same moment, to make her presence known.

 

‘Aela?’

 

Now she could see the other person in the room; it was the older man who’d watched her during her match against Vilkas, the fierce-looking warrior with the pony-tail and one good eye.

 

The two of them were standing mere inches apart—they’d been staring intently at one another, and the man had one hand curled around Aela’s bicep.

 

Their reaction to her entrance was strange; he abruptly cut off whatever he’d been saying, and they both turned to look at her, seeming startled. In the same motion, they simultaneously leapt apart, so that several feet of empty air stood between them, and a stiff, awkward silence enveloped the room.

 

Merrin may have had no-one to call her own, but she was _still_ a woman. She eyed them steadily for a second, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she spoke again. ‘I can come back, if I’m interrupting.’

 

In a split second, the red-head schooled her features; she waved a hand casually and shook her head, looking business-like. ‘Nonsense. You’re not interrupting anything. What brings you to my quarters?’

 

Merrin’s gaze slid over momentarily, to look at the man in the room. He too had adopted a composed expression, and his arms were crossed in front of his chest. It was then that she noticed his armor; it was a match to Vilkas and Kodlak’s. Another important man?

 

_Hmmm. Suspicious._ Quickly, she looked back at Aela.

 

‘Eorlund Gray-Mane sent me. He finished the shield you asked him for, and I’m to give it to you.’ She lifted the shield up to show her, and the steel caught the flickering light of the torches.

 

Aela’s face brightened as she reached for the shield, and she eyed it expertly as she held it aloft, running one hand over the smooth wooden ridges. ‘Excellent! I’ve been dying to give this a try. I’ll have to go and thank Eorlund later.’ She turned to walk across the room, and hung the shield on her far wall, on a peg already waiting. As she did, Merrin had a chance to look around.

 

The room seemed more trophy room than bedroom; everywhere she looked, there were prizes from the hunt. Several sets of twelve-point antlers adorned the walls on red velvet mounts, and instead of the red rugs she’d been seeing, the floor had two separate pelts spread over it—both of them were bear. Several low tables were scattered along the walls, and a desk sat solidly in the far corner. The tables were topped with open display cases—some held weapons, but others held tools for processing both meat and hides. The desk was well-lit by several stout candles, puddling pale wax, and the work-surface was dominated by what looked like a headdress of feathers, partially constructed.

 

A single bed was shoved up against the wall by the door, like an after-thought. Instead of a quilt, it was covered in a luxurious snow-sabre pelt.

 

She was impressed, and her wandering eyes were only called back when Aela spoke to her again.

 

‘I wanted to congratulate you on your testing.’ She hit Merrin with a smile that was a hint feral, and her green eyes flickered in the candlelight. ‘We were both impressed. You gave Vilkas quite the thrashing.’

 

The man beside them laughed then, a hacking sort of chuckle that sounded like a bark—the first noise he’d made since she’d entered the room. ‘Don’t let Vilkas hear you saying that.’

 

He had a commanding voice, rich, a bit rough around the edges. But when he turned to face Merrin, he looked amused.

 

‘But she’s right. You did good.’

 

He leaned toward her then, one calloused hand extended for a shake. When she took the hand with her good one, his grip was so tight it was almost painful. ‘It’s good to meet you, newblood. The name’s Skjor.’

 

‘Well met. My name is Merrin.’ She felt like she was being measured; in a very real way, she probably was. The old warrior was staring at her hard with his good eye, which was a steely grey very similar to Kodlak’s. All the amusement was gone from his face, and a tense moment passed as he analyzed her.

 

But he must have been satisfied with whatever he saw, because he nodded once and let her hand go, and a wry smile softened his serious features.

 

‘Well met. How are you settling in so far?’

 

‘Haven’t actually had much time to _settle_ ,’ she replied honestly. ‘It’s a lot to take in. And not everyone has been so welcoming as you two.’ Her thoughts flashed back to Vilkas, and her brown eyes flickered with irritation.

 

‘You mean Vilkas.’ It wasn’t a question, and when she nodded stiffly, he barked out another laugh.

 

‘Don’t pay that boy any mind—he got what was comin’ to him.’ He looked past her then, looking instead to Aela. ‘Never did learn how to lose with grace, did he?’

 

‘That’s a fact.’ Aela pursed her lips, but there was amusement in her eyes. ‘No matter. A broken wrist will curb that damned pride of his—for a day or so, anyway.’

 

_Broken?_ She wasn’t a sadistic person, but the ass had done nothing but piss her off since she’d walked into Jorrvaskr, and hearing that she’d done some real damage had her mouth tugging up at the corners, as the man beside her laughed some more.

 

_Raw, with no seasoning._

 

‘But tell me.’ Aela’s green eyes were fixed on her, assessing her again. ‘Do you think you could best Vilkas in a _real_ fight?’

 

_Hell, yes._ At Aela’s words, images of pummeling the ignorant Nord into the ground had Merrin’s hands clenching; she had no doubt that if it came to that, she would come out on top. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so—but after a moment, she reeled herself in. Two sets of eyes were watching her expectantly, and she didn’t want to come off as a braggart.

 

‘I’m not one for boasting,’ she finally said evenly.

 

Aela nodded neatly, as if her suspicions had been confirmed.

 

‘Finally—a woman who lets her actions speak for her.’ Suddenly, she gave a sly smile. ‘I knew there was something I liked about you.’

 

She wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so she just kept quiet and nodded.

 

Aela must’ve taken her silence for weariness, because she suddenly shook her head, and came up looking business-like again. ‘Oh, but what am I thinking? You must be tired.’ She gestured out the door, back the way Merrin had come.

 

‘Come with me, and I’ll show you where all the newbloods sleep. It’s still pretty early in the day, but it’ll give you a chance to put away your things.’

 

Aela moved in a way that was brisk and efficient; after a nodded farewell from Skjor, Merrin found herself being walked back down the hallway.

 

At first they were both silent, but then Aela spoke, the words coming out slow and thoughtful.

 

‘I have to say...I’m a bit surprised that you’re really here.’

 

The words caught Merrin off-guard, and before she could stop herself, she snorted. ‘So am I.’

 

‘It’s just...’ Aela paused, started up again. ‘When I first saw you outside the city, you looked so purposeful. Like you already had a reason for coming, and I know it wasn’t us—you said as much yourself. We don’t usually get people that already have established lives of their own. We get drifters, dreamers...’ Another pause. ‘People who’s old lives have fallen apart.’

 

She didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken, and she stared warily at Aela from the corner of her eye.

 

‘Is it safe to say that _you_ fall into one of those categories?’ She’d clearly arrived at the point she was making, and turned her head to fix Merrin with bright green eyes as she waited for an answer.

 

Merrin’s voice came out tight and guarded. ‘I guess you could say it was something like that.’

 

She was thinking of the circumstances that had led her here, and they weren’t things she was comfortable discussing; Dalan Dufont, the Imperial ambush...nearly being executed...the ruin of Helgen. Not knowing if everything she’d worked for for the last four years had gone up in smoke shortly after that village.

 

Aela seemed to be much more forward than the average woman; Merrin could tell that she saw her discomfort, and yet she didn’t bluster or rush to apologize. She only gave her a measured look, calm, before she shook her head, red tresses swaying.

 

‘It is not my place to ask you such things. We need not discuss it, if that is your wish.’

 

In a strange way, her attitude garnered Merrin’s respect; maybe because she operated much the same way. Taking a breath, she forced herself to relax.

 

‘You did nothing wrong,’ she told her. ‘In time, I might tell you the story.’

 

Aela’s response was to stop where she stood, nodding her head to Merrin’s right. ‘Here we are. This is your stop.’

 

They were standing in front of the first door by the stairs—where she’d stood with the shield not too long ago. The door was carved to depict elegant spring flowers and winding cords of knotted rope, and the border was tinted the same pale blue that seemed to carry throughout the city. She could hear several loud voices from inside the room—a couple of which she recognized—shouting back and forth.

 

She stood there just staring at the door, as if it might be hostile, and after a moment Aela noticed.

 

‘Nervous, are we?’ She arched one tapered brow.

 

Merrin grimaced. ‘Not _nervous_. It’s just...I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to introduce myself so many times in one day.’

 

Aela laughed. ‘Don’t worry, newblood. I’ll come with you, and tell you who’s who. No point in just throwing you to the wolves. But first.’ She turned to face her, and raised one pale and elegant hand to grip Merrin’s shoulder—thankfully, the uninjured one. Her fey eyes were warm as she tilted her chin.

 

‘I want to be the first to say it formally. Welcome to the Companions...Shield-Sister.’

 

**A/N: Do you usually skip top notes? Go back and read the ones in this chapter for some fun news!**

 


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: A few things, before reading on. I'd like to thank all of my readers for reading my story, and especially all of my original readers who have come this far, for being patient. I don't want to make excuses - suffice it to say that I am currently much, much busier in my day to day life than I'd like to be. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.**

**As you've all noticed, this chapter is MASSIVE. It's bigger than anything I've ever done before for a single chapter, and I don't know that I'll ever make another chapter its size. I thought long and hard about splitting it into two, but I ultimately decided that this is the format I wanted; it's dialogue heavy, so if that isn't your thing, apologies. But it lays a lot of groundwork for future plot and relationships, so I think this is the best way.**

**Enjoy! I'll be updating again as soon as possible, and, as always, feel free to let me know what you think! Your opinions are always valued.**

 

****

Merrin woke suddenly – as if sleep had barely been holding her under – in an unfamiliar, somewhat lumpy bed. Darkness surrounded her, black as pitch, and for several moments, she didn’t know where she was...again.

 

Then she moved just a couple of inches, and the dull, residual ache in her shoulder reminded her.

 

She laid still for several seconds, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness; at some point in the night, all the sconces and candles must’ve been snuffed. Now that she was awake and alert, she could hear the breathing and soft snores of the other people in the room with her—the other new recruits.

 

As she laid there, the relative silence was suddenly pierced by the angry growling of her stomach, and she sighed.

 

She’d fallen asleep without any dinner, and now she was _really_ starving. She needed to slip upstairs and find some breakfast—but _without_ waking anyone up.

 

The outlines of shapes had started to take form around her, and after another minute, she felt confident enough.

 

She grabbed the quilt draped over her with one hand and peeled it back and away, gingerly rising to a sitting position. She couldn’t see the quilt in the dark, but she knew from the night before that it was a faded green, with small white flowers embroidered along the edges.

 

Her other hand slipped beneath the pillow she’d slept on, fingers groping along the sheet until they grabbed what she was after—her brown cotton breeches. Freeing her legs completely from the quilt, she eased herself as quietly as possible to the side of the bed, setting down her feet so that they touched the cold flagstone. Doing her best not to make a sound, she shook out the breeches and pulled them on, slipping them up over her smallcloth and lacing them.

 

She knew better than to hope to find her socks; it would be impossible, in the dark. So she scooted down to the foot of the bed, and felt around with her toes for her scavenged boots—slowly, so she didn’t knock one over. When she finally felt the cool brush of leather, she bit off another sigh and eased her feet into them, lacing them quickly as well. She didn’t dare to bother with armor—she wouldn’t need it anyway, for now. With nothing left to do, she stood, tucking her tunic into her pants.

 

Now came the hard part. She’d ended up choosing the bed in the far left corner of the room, and she’d have to make it to the centre to find the door. In that spanse, she had to keep from making noise, or tripping and falling onto someone in their bed. Biting her lip, she edged forward to her right.

 

It was nerve wracking; she’d only ever seen this room once, and it was hard to traverse what you didn’t know. She walked slowly, agonizingly slowly, so she wouldn’t stub a toe or bash a shin, and four different times, she bumped gently into something and had to alter her course. She had her arms spread out with her hands outstretched, so she wouldn’t walk into anything, and when she was most of the way across the room, her left hand grazed someone’s bent and blanketed knee. She hadn’t been expecting the touch, and winced as she yanked her hand back, waiting. But the owner of the knee didn’t stir.

 

After what felt like an eternity, she finally braced a palm against the wood of the door, and she grabbed an iron handle with eager fingers.

 

Outside, the hallway was a stark and blessed change; it was just as brightly lit as when she’d gotten there, and so she could see just fine. She closed the door behind her silently, and then sagged with relief against the wood.

 

The whole procedure must have taken her ten minutes—it had felt like much more. In the torch-lit hall, she let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding, and then had to force her jaw to unclench.

 

As she stood there sucking in a fresh lungful, she felt like laughing at herself. Who else would take something so simple so seriously? But in the end, she wouldn’t have done it differently. She was newest of the new, here—today would be her first official day. Who would want to be the newcomer that tripped over a breastplate in the dark and went crashing into a sleeping bunkmate on their _first day_? Nobody. And especially not her. She preferred to leave accidents for when she was better known...they tended to shape you less, that way.

 

Her stomach broke her train of thought then, with a painful growl even louder than the first.

 

‘Alright, alright. Jeez,’ Merrin muttered. Cupping her mutinous gut with one hand, she scanned her surroundings for anything to eat. Would the kitchen be fired for the day yet? She doubted it, and then got overtaken by a huge, sudden yawn. What time was it, anyway? Without a window, she had no way of knowing.

 

She was about to head upstairs when a plate caught her eye. It was sitting on a side table in a small communal lounging area next to the door of the bunk—and it had a single creme treat on it.

 

_Yes!_ In two bounding strides, she had the creme treat in her hand, and was eagerly taking the first huge bite. It didn’t really occur to her that the dessert could belong to somebody else, and she didn’t care that it was a bit stale; it was sustenance, plain and simple, and she sank into the nearest chair as she wolfed it down.

 

It was quiet in the hall, the only sounds belonging to her, and it soothed away the nervous tension she’d carried with her from the sleeping chamber. As she ate, the quiet gave her time to think, and she reflected on how the night before had unfolded.

 

When Aela had pushed open those doors and led her inside, it had only taken a second for the raucous shouting to stop, and then all eyes were on her.

 

The Dunmer named Athis had been laying in a bed ahead of her and to her right, back propped up against several thick pillows, body covered by a worn red quilt. The man named Torvar sat on the floor, back against a wardrobe beside the bed, elbows rested on knees, and the Imperial woman who’s name she didn’t know sat perched on the foot of Athis’ bed.

 

They’d all stared at her with great interest, and it had taken her a second to realize that there was a sixth person in the room; sitting in a wooden chair against the far left wall, the Nord named Njada scowled at her as she tugged on a pair of leather boots.

 

‘Listen up, whelps.’ As always, Aela’s voice came out strong, and Merrin had dropped Njada’s hostile gaze to look at the red-head instead.

 

‘Today, new blood joins our ranks. Let’s have a round of introductions, to start things off.’

 

And so, there’d been a round of introductions. She’d announced her name for the fifth time that day, nodding politely at the group in front of her.

 

Torvar had been the first to greet her; he’d pulled himself to standing with a bit of difficulty (undoubtedly caused by the empty bottles at his feet) and had taken her hand as if she were a lady at court, bowing low over it before coming up with a grin. ‘So very well met, ma’am. My name is Torvar. I think we’ll be good friends in no time a’tall.’

 

He’d been pungent, but harmless, and she’d smiled good-naturedly as he leaned back against the wardrobe. ‘We’ll have to see. Well met.’

 

Athis had introduced himself next, and then grimaced. ‘I’m afraid I can’t make to shake your hand, though. I’ll be stuck in this bed for a day or so.’

 

She’d witnessed the brawl he’d lost, and she’d nodded as she came forward so they could shake, giving him her practical observation.

 

‘That’s probably for the best, after the hit you took.’

 

Torvar had laughed at that for some reason, but Athis had only nodded grimly, dark red eyes looking her over. She’d released his hand then, and taken a step back.

 

Before anyone had a chance to continue, the woman named Njada had stalked across the room, and gotten right in Merrin’s face—or had done her best to, being nearly a head shorter.

 

‘Here’s all you need to know about me,’ the pale-haired woman had hissed. ‘I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to play nice. If you stay out of my way, things will work out fine.’ She’d narrowed her eyes in a glare then; strange, tawny eyes with golden flecks. ‘Give me any trouble? You’ll regret it.’ Then she’d stormed past the two women in the doorway, bumping hard into Merrin’s shoulder as she left, and slammed the door to the upper levels behind her.

 

There’d been a moment of awkward silence in the room where Merrin had hissed out a harsh breath; Njada had bumped into her _injured_ shoulder. Aela had stared at the door to the mead hall, mouth firmed with disapproval. Then the Imperial woman had spoken up, smiling apologetically.

 

‘Um...sorry about that. That was Njada. She can be...prickly, before she gets to know you.’

 

‘Prickly?’ Torvar had interjected, and laughed. ‘More like barbed. Let’s just say the Stonearm doesn’t have many friends.’

 

After a moment, her anger started to fade, and Merrin shrugged as she rubbed at her sore shoulder. ‘Not everyone’s interested in being friendly.’

 

‘Well, the three of us _are_.’ The Imperial woman had stood up then, reaching out a hand to shake. ‘My name is Ria Mellius, and I’m pleased to meet you.’

 

The pretty brunette’s hand had been warm when it squeezed hers, and she’d stared at Merrin with large dark eyes, done up in a smokey red that matched her lips perfectly. When she’d smiled, it had seemed genuine. ‘If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask one of us.’

 

The offer had warmed Merrin, and she’d muttered her thanks.

 

After that, Aela had turned to her and thrown her another playful smile. ‘I’d say that my work here is finished, for now. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to settle in. I have a hunt to make preparations for. If you need anything...’ She’d tossed her head at the others. ‘You know who to ask.’

 

And then she’d swept through the wooden doors, graceful as a stalking cat.

 

Merrin shook off the memories of the night before, and reined herself back into the present moment.

 

She had polished off the creme treat while she sat there thinking, and while it would hold her over for a while, she was far from satisfied—she needed to look for something else.

 

She should go upstairs and check the kitchen for something. She barely knew Tilma, but she’d seemed _more_ than kind enough. Surely, she wouldn’t mind if Merrin crept in and took something small.

 

Mind made up, she got out of the chair and headed toward the twin set of doors, running her fingers through her hair as she went, to make it presentable—or try to, at least.

 

Once again, she moved quiet as a mouse, not wanting to wake anyone with the door, and she was soundless as she made her way up the stairs to the mead hall. She could already tell it was still _early_ morning; there wasn’t a sound above her, and the light filtering through the windows was pale and young, so that the hall was still shadowy.

 

She’d only taken a couple of steps when she saw something that made her stop in her tracks.

 

Not something. Some _one_. Standing tall and broad at the long oaken table, great sword strapped to his armored back—it was the man she’d met outside of Whiterun, with the easy laugh and the deep blue eyes.

 

She’d been silent in her unknowing approach, and he hadn’t noticed her. He was standing with his great back to her, staring into the fire.

 

From where she stood, she could see that his armor was scuffed and dirty, his boots splashed with mud. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, black in the fire’s silhouette, and lank as if from many days on the road. Was that why she hadn’t seen him? Had he only just gotten here?

 

As if he could sense her presence or her questions, the big Nord suddenly turned around, and his gaze latched onto her instantly. Instinctively, her hand tightened around the stair’s banister.

 

She could see that he looked tired; smeared warpaint couldn’t hide bags under his eyes, and several day’s neglect had turned the stubble he’d sported when she first saw him into the beginnings of a beard. But his eyes lit up as he recognized her, and a boyish grin broke over his face.

 

‘Hey, it’s you! The girl in the field.’

 

When he spoke, his voice was deep and easy, like she’d remembered, and he sounded enthusiastic. Instantly, she was glad to see him, and she let her hand fall as she smiled back at him. She answered in muted tones, still cautious of the people sleeping below her.

 

‘Not in the field anymore.’

 

He chuckled appreciatively. ‘So you decided to come after all?’ Blue eyes swept her over as he took in her appearance, and he nodded, seeming satisfied. ‘If you’re here at this hour, that means Kodlak must’ve liked you.’

 

She shrugged. ‘I guess so.’ She had no way of knowing—his words had only just made her realize that she hadn’t actually spoken to the Harbinger since she’d left his study with Vilkas.

 

And like ripples in a pond, that realization triggered another one; she had no idea what Vilkas had said about her, when he’d reported back to Kodlak—she wasn’t even sure that he’d really _given_ a report. Thinking of Vilkas stirred yesterday’s anger, and her smile faded as she met his gaze again.

 

‘I haven’t had the chance to speak with him again. But they gave me a bed to sleep in, and I’m already being ordered around.’ She crinkled her nose as she said the words. ‘So I guess that means I’m in.’

 

A look of comprehension dawned on his face as he took in her sour expression, and he chuckled again, irking her some more.

 

‘Ordered around? Sounds like you’ve already met Vilkas, then.’ He leaned a hip against the table, eyes shining with amusement as he looked at her.

 

‘Unfortunately.’ She knew it was rude, but it was too early to care. ‘He was the one who tested my arm.’ She crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘He looks a lot like you.’

 

‘He should.’ Another grin. ‘Being my twin, and all.’

 

_Oh, shit._ Instantly, she wanted to hit herself, and she had to bite back a curse; how could she have been so stupid? How could she miss something so obvious? Her anger swelled at her own stupidity, and she scowled. She’d already put her foot in her mouth, but embarrassment had words cramming up in her throat. Before she could rein herself in, they spilled from her.

 

‘Are you _serious_? You’re related to _Vilkas? Twins?_ How is that possible?’ She snorted, eyes narrowed at him. ‘You seem like a reasonable person. He’s been nothing but—’

 

‘An ass.’ He finished the thought for her smoothly; when she pulled her head back in surprise, he was still smiling.

 

‘Yeah,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s my brother.’

 

She was wary now as she eyed him; embarrassed at her foolish blunder, but not about to apologize, either. She tipped her chin up obstinately. ‘Then maybe appearances can be deceiving. You’re his twin. How do I know _you’re_ not an ass, too?’

 

She didn’t know what kind of answer to expect, but he just shrugged, good-naturedly, flashing his smile at her again.

 

‘Sometimes I can be. But not for the most part. Mostly, I guess I’m what you’d call the ‘good twin’.’

 

He seemed genuine—not trying to boast, or preen. So after a moment, she relented. Then huffed. ‘No doubts about what that makes Vilkas.’

 

The big man in front of her didn’t seem to take the slightest offense at her attitude towards his flesh and blood; on the contrary, he laughed, and his blue eyes flickered appreciatively.

 

‘Vilkas...is a good man. I swear,’ he insisted over another snort from her. ‘He just takes longer to come around to new people. Always has. He’s quick to anger and slow to trust. But, if you show yourself to be honorable, he’ll warm to you eventually. I’m sure of it.’

 

His face was eager when he spoke, his blue eyes genuine, and there was a simple and obvious love for his brother in his words. She took in the sight of him for one long moment, and then she softened; some of her prickly resentment faded.

 

She knew how it was, to be quick to anger.

 

‘We’ll see,’ she said slowly, letting her arms uncross and fall back to her sides. ‘He made it obvious that he didn’t think I could make it among you. I’m surprised he agreed to even test my arm.’

 

He nodded though, seeming completely unsurprised. ‘We all respect Kodlak a lot. Pretty much anything he asks of us, we do.’ He was silent for a second, and then a thought obviously occurred to him; a line appeared between his thick brows, and he looked her over anew.

 

‘But if Vilkas tested your arm, I know for sure that you’re tired and sore today. What has you up so _early_?’

 

She grimaced. ‘I’m sore,’ she conceded. ‘But not tired. And I’m up because my traitor of a stomach _forced_ me up. I feel like I could eat a horker.’

 

He chuckled in response, and she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I could ask you the same question, you know. Why are _you_ up so early?’

 

‘Because _I_ just got here,’ he replied simply. He gestured carelessly to the seat beside him, and she saw a huge knapsack dumped there, with a used-looking bedroll tied to the bottom. When she looked back at him, he was drinking deeply from an earthenware mug she hadn’t noticed in his hand.

 

‘You’ve been on the road?’ The explanation settled her, for some reason.

 

_That must be why he wasn’t around when I got here._

 

‘Yep,’ he responded, popping the ‘p’ and nodding once. ‘Had a job in Rorikstead that needed doing. Bandits.’ He flashed her a fierce smile then, one that reminded her of Aela.

 

‘They won’t be banditing anymore. Finished the job, and came straight home—didn’t bother setting up camp. I got here about a quarter hour ago.’

 

She was opening her mouth to reply, when her stomach growled again—long and insistent, the sound travelling through the room.

 

She wasn’t embarrassed, but she _was_ annoyed, and this time she let a curse slip out as she brought a hand to her flat, empty stomach.

 

‘Oh, ah...I can help you with that.’

 

Merrin looked back up at the man in front of her. He wasn’t looking at her now; instead, he was rummaging through the rucksack he’d set aside. But he beckoned to her with his other hand.

 

Hesitantly, she took a step forward. ‘You don’t need to do that. I was going to look for something in the kitchen. I don’t want to inconvenience.’

 

‘You’re not,’ he replied easily. ‘Least not yet.’ He spared her a glance from his rummaging, and his eyes were dancing. ‘But if you go in that kitchen, I can’t protect you. Tilma’s as sweet as spun sugar—as long as you don’t mess with her larder. Go in without her say so, and all bets are off.’

 

He’d spoken plainly this whole time, and she had no reason to believe he was exaggerating now. She put a hand on her hip and lifted a brow.

 

_Huh._ ‘That a fact? Thanks for the warning, then, I guess.’

 

‘Much safer to just accept my gracious hospitality.’ He straightened up then with a linen bundle in his hand, and a hokey grin on his face.

 

At the sight of that grin, her feelings warmed—her initial liking for him grew. She took another step closer, and hit him with a smile of her own.

 

‘Well then, let’s see what you’ve got.’

 

He unwrapped the linen to reveal half a loaf of brown bread, a red and yellow apple, and several strips of some sort of dried meat.

 

There were still several strides between them, but at the sight of the food, her stomach urged her forward. She shot him quick thanks, and reached for one of the strips of meat.

 

‘Hold on, hold on. Wait a second.’ She’d been about to grab a strip when one of his large hands closed loosely around her wrist.

 

Normally she would tense, even jerk away; he seemed genuinely kind, and she was definitely starting to like him, but the man was still a virtual stranger.

 

But she didn’t do either of those things. His grip was warm, and so was his voice. When she looked up to stare at him questioningly, there was no hint of a threat in his features. He was looking at her with interest, his eyes still twinkling with mirth.

 

‘I think we’re forgetting something,’ he told her.

 

She only stared at him, confused.

 

‘Names!’ He chuckled. ‘Any woman going to eat the last of my favorite jerky, I’d like to know her name first.’

 

It was so unexpected, she laughed; a loose, whooping laugh from her gut, that made her shoulders shake. He seemed delighted by this laughter, and joined with some of his own; she was surprised when the sound made her heart jump in her chest.

 

It was easy to laugh with him, even not knowing him, and it took her a few moments to settle down. When she looked back up at him with her head cocked to the side, she was still smiling. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered at it. _How different, her reaction to this twin!_

 

‘It’s Merrin. My name is Merrin.’

 

‘Merrin.’ He tried the name out for himself, and his gaze went somewhat soft and considering as he looked at her, like he was really thinking about it.

 

‘I like that,’ he announced after moments of staring. ‘It suits you. Merrin.’

 

His voice was almost tender when he said her name, and her stomach gave a little jump.

 

‘Oh, yeah? Is that so?’

 

He nodded, eyes still searching hers. ‘Yep. It’s a pretty name. Down to earth. Makes me think of a deep green forest.’

 

The words jolted her a bit; they were similar to something she’d heard all her life, and an image of home came flashing unbidden to the front of her mind. An image of tall, green trees. Her stomach lurched again, stronger this time.

 

‘It’s good to meet you, Merrin. My name is Farkas.’ His hand slid then from her wrist to link with hers, and they exchanged a firm handshake.

 

When had they gotten so _close_? The distance that had separated them to start was gone, and now so was the distance that usually separated strangers; she could _smell_ him, both the various smells of travel clinging to his clothes and armor, and the actual musk of the man beneath. She could feel the heat of his body. All her life, she had been tall, but the man in front of her was so abnormally large that he was still nearly a head above her, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

 

The fire was still the main source of light in the room, and the orange light flickered playfully over the planes and valleys of his face, turning his blue eyes a curious color. She couldn’t ignore what a good face it was.

 

His eyes had left hers, and now they were resting on other parts of her; her cheek, her mouth, her nose. Suddenly, he smiled again.

 

‘You have freckles.’ He sounded delighted. ‘Here..’ he lifted his other hand, and traced a finger delicately over her skin, across the bridge of her nose, along the ridge of her cheekbones, seeming fascinated. ‘And here. I never noticed, out in the field.’ The smile widened into a grin. ‘They’re cute.’

 

She wasn’t breathing anymore; the breath had caught in her throat. Her pulse had started to hammer. He had surprised her into freezing—now all she could feel were his fingers, and his gaze.

 

For a moment, she hung that way, suspended.

 

Then she shook herself mentally, blinking once, twice. _What are you doing?_ She asked herself. _What is this?_ She didn’t normally react this way to being touched—and definitely not by strangers. It was time to gain some distance.

 

She decided to try for humor, and smirked, taking one tiny step away before she spoke.

 

‘Farkas? Hmm. That’s a pretty name, too. Makes me think of...really big guys with extra strips of jerky.’

 

He startled at her words, and then laughed. The loud sound in the quiet room seemed to break the spell; both of them took a step away, and their hands that had still been clasped together came falling easily apart. He braced his on the table instead, and when he looked back up at her, his face was torn. He looked both amused, and bashful. Two spots of color rode high on his prominent cheekbones, just like the ones she’d seen on his brother. But the similarities ended there.

 

‘Oh,’ he groaned, on a tapering laugh. ‘Oh, you’re funny. I like that.’ He reached a hand around to cup the back of his neck, and lowered his gaze. ‘Sorry for poking at your face like that.’

 

The strange tension between them had broken, and it relieved her; she bulled determinedly through the remaining wisps of it, and smiled broadly. ‘No harm, no foul.’ She pointed at the table. ‘As long as I get the jerky now.’

 

 

Things moved along more easily after that. Farkas pulled a chair out for her to sit on, and pushed the food in front of her when she sat, and they talked of lighter things; it was as if nothing strange had happened between them at all.

 

‘I’d offer to fix you up some raana, but this was the last of what I had.’ He gestured towards his half-empty mug, and sounded apologetic.

 

Merrin stared longingly at the cup of dark liquid. Raana was grown and shipped from Hammerfell; part tea-leaf, part ground bean, and now popular across most of Tamriel. If brewed in hot water, it made a stimulating drink with a strong aroma, and was good for a boost if a person was tired.

 

She’d developed a taste for it in Morrowind; she didn’t add milk, like some people did, but she liked it with plenty of sugar. And a cup right then would be more than welcome.

 

But she only smiled and shook her head, and told him not to worry about it.

 

The jerky turned out to be good, and as she worked on a big piece, he asked her questions.

 

Merrin found him as easy to talk to as his brother was difficult; he smiled often and laughed easily. She could see he was tired—he yawned hugely more than once—but he obviously _wanted_ to be sitting there. It was plain when she talked that he was really listening.

 

When she told him about Eorlund’s offer, he nodded at her, looking pleased.

 

‘That’s good. If you have the skill, Eorlund will teach you some valuable stuff. I still remember everything he taught _me_.’

 

‘You’re...a smith, too?’ She looked at him with undisguised interest. He had a powerful body, and when she gave it a thought, the idea didn’t surprise her.

 

Farkas chuckled. ‘Now and then, in my spare time. I like the craft, but Eorlund doesn’t have much patience with me. Maybe you’ll fare better.’

 

She could only shrug. ‘I hope so.’

 

As if he sensed her reticence, he changed the subject, expression turning sage. ‘So, you stayed the night. That means you must’ve met most everyone. How’d you get along with the other whelps?’

 

Instantly, she drew up short, and looked at him narrowly. ‘Not you, too,’ she muttered, accusatory.

 

He looked at her, confused. ‘Not me too what?’

 

‘ _Whelps’,_ she grumbled. ‘So pointlessly rude. Why do you need to call us that?’

 

He tilted his head to stare at her strangely, and she thought she saw something like admiration flash in his eyes. After a long moment, a slow smile broke over his face, and he nodded. ‘Alright then... _newblood_. How’d you get along with the others?’

 

She thought out her reply carefully. ‘Torvar, Athis, and Ria were friendly. Njada...not so much.’

 

He snorted, and stole back a bit of jerky. ‘You shouldn’t take that one too personal. If you’re not a member of the Circle, Njada doesn’t have much use for you.’

 

Merrin stared at him. ‘What do you mean, the Circle?’ He reached for more jerky, and she swatted his hand away. ‘What happened to your gracious hospitality, huh? Let a woman eat.’

 

He laughed at her, eyes dancing appreciatively once again. ‘A spitfire! I’m so sorry, ma’am. Won’t happen again.’ Then he tore off a hunk of bread instead, ignoring her huff, chewing thoughtfully before he answered.

 

‘She’s looking to climb. The Circle’s made up of our strongest members. If you wanna be a Circle member, you’ve gotta be tough.’ For a second he looked like he had more to say, but then he just shook his head, and took more bread.

 

‘Huh.’ She sat there quietly, absorbing the new information, watching the first golden rays of real dawn as they crept across the floor. Her father had told her countless stories of the Companions, but he’d never once mentioned an inner circle.

 

Suddenly she was snapped back by a suspicious thought, and she looked over at the man beside her—more specifically, at his armor.

 

It was exactly as she’d expected; the breastplate was smeared with mud, but there was no mistaking that sculpted wolf.

 

‘Wait a minute.’ He looked over at the tone of her voice, mouth full of bread, and looked guilty despite not knowing if he’d done anything. It almost pulled a smile from her. Almost.

 

‘That armor. I’ve been seeing it around. Does it mean something special? That...you’re part of the Circle?’

 

He swallowed in a way that looked painful, but the guilty look had been replaced with a grin.

 

‘Oh, this? Yeah, that’s exactly what it means. Funny, _and_ smart.’ He looked the armor over proudly. ‘You like it?’

 

‘It’s nice,’ she admitted grudgingly. But that would mean...

 

‘So you, Skjor, Kodlak...your brother. You’re all members of this Circle?’

 

‘You’re forgetting Aela.’ He took a swig of cold raana to wash down his bread. ‘She’s a member of the Circle, too. Just doesn’t wear the armor.’

 

It was true; every time she’d seen Aela, she’d been wearing a set of old Nordic armor—as if she’d taken it right off a Draugr. But that hadn’t been her point, and she hissed in frustration.

 

‘So your idiot brother _can_ order me around.’ She ground her teeth together, fists clenched. ‘Just perfect.’ The anger had welled up almost instantly, and this time she didn’t care what Farkas thought of her bad-mouthing his brother.

 

‘Hey, hey.’ His deep voice was soothing, pacifying, and he lifted his hands up in her direction. ‘Easy. Vilkas is a lot of things, but he isn’t an idiot.’

 

She started to cut across him with angry protests, but he continued over her in a mellow sort of way.

 

‘And one day, when you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself around here, Vilkas might give you contracts, yeah. But he _can’t_ just boss you around. Nobody _bosses_ anybody, in Jorrvaskr.’

 

She sat there for several tense moments, just breathing, hands clenched in front of her; the thought of Vilkas running her was like fire in her veins—intolerable.

 

But she was collected enough to realize that what Farkas had said mirrored Kodlak’s earlier words: Vilkas might try, but he had no grounds to succeed. Amongst the Companions, she would be her own woman, Circle or no Circle. She latched onto that thought, solitary and comforting, and let it cool her down.

 

Farkas had sat wordlessly, watching her seethe, with a mild expression on his face. When she turned her face back toward his, he raised his eyebrows.

 

‘You’ve got a temper on you.’ It was said conversationally, as if he were commenting on the weather.

 

She grimaced at his observation, and let out a gusting breath. ‘Always have. Can’t see a day where I ever won’t. And,’ she added dryly, ‘I can’t see a day where I’ll take a job from your brother.’

 

‘It reminds me of someone else.’

 

She looked back at him sharply, feeling defensive, but his expression was as clear as water—no inflection to be found. She was tired of being angry, and after another second she slumped in her seat and started picking at the bread, willing herself to relax.

 

After a few seconds of silence, Farkas cleared his throat, and she was surprised to suddenly feel his elbow nudging her in the ribs. She looked up at him again, an irritated warning half-formulated; then she saw that he was smiling again, as if she hadn’t just snapped and snarled, and the words died on her lips.

 

‘It looks to me like you could use a distraction,’ he said, cajoling. ‘Something to get your mind off of...things.’

 

‘Yeah?’ She asked warily. ‘What do you have in mind?’

 

‘Well...you’re going to be living in Whiterun now, right?’

 

Hearing him say it made it feel surreal, and she was slow to respond. ‘It looks that way.’

 

‘Do you know your way around the city? You said you haven’t seen much of it.’

 

That was the truth. ‘No, I don’t.’

 

Farkas’ face brightened, and he leaned in towards her to bump her again. ‘Then how ‘bout I give you the grand tour? Show you around the city? It’ll help you get settled in quicker.’

 

Merrin looked at him, surprised again, and a smile tugged at the corners of her broad mouth. It was a sweet offer, and it had warmth blooming in her chest; he must’ve been exhausted from his trek back home, but he was plainly eager at the idea of showing her around—she could see it on his face.

 

She’d opened her mouth, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, when she suddenly remembered.

 

‘Oh.’ Her brows drew together. ‘I’m sorry, Farkas. That’s a sweet offer, really, and I’m grateful. But Ria offered the same last night, and I already said yes.’

 

The Imperial woman hadn’t left her side after Aela had introduced them—she’d seemed determined to make Merrin feel welcome, and truthfully, she had. Before she’d left her to get some sleep, Ria had offered to spend the day showing her the city.

 

Merrin had been glad to accept, then; now she felt oddly disappointed.

 

For a second, she saw mirrored disappointment in his eyes, and it made her stomach lurch again. But then he smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and shook his head good-naturedly.

 

‘Too bad, then. But I guess it’s for the best—this way I can catch some shut-eye.’

 

She looked him over, and nodded practically, shaking off the unwanted jumpiness. ‘You _do_ look tired.’

 

He laughed. ‘Thanks. At any rate, if it’s Ria showing you around, you won’t be waiting much longer. She’s an early bird.’

 

He pushed away from where he’d been leaning beside her against the table, stretched his neck until it popped, and gave both shoulders a roll. Then he picked up his mug and downed the rest of his raana, before he looked down at her.

 

‘Hey, before I go...I know you’re just getting settled and all, but would you be interested in some work? I’ve got a job I think you could do.’

 

She lifted a brow, tilted her chin. ‘That depends. Does it include running around, doing your personal errands?’

 

Something in her eyes must’ve tipped him off, because he laughed again, heartily, before he shook his head.

 

‘No...no, nothing like that. I mostly leave the over-lording to my brother.’ He pursed his full lips, and shrugged. ‘I mean, it still isn’t glamorous. But you’d get paid.’

 

She sat there, considering. Her first real job...and _not_ a menial errand. Including money.

 

‘I’m listening.’

 

‘Thought so.’ He grinned. ‘I got the letter for the job a few days ago, but the bandits in Rorikstead needed dealing with. Someone needs some muscle right here in Whiterun.’

 

Merrin frowned. ‘Oh? What for?’

 

‘Apparently, a guy in town’s been running his mouth off, throwing his weight around. Being a bully. Folks are tired of it, and someone complained who’s willing to pay.’ He shrugged again.

 

‘So...’ she said slowly, looking confused. ‘You want me to go knock some sense into him? Is that it?’

 

He nodded. ‘If it comes to that. But I know the guy—it probably won’t. Mostly, I’d just need you to go down there and look tough. Scare the milk-drinker into submission.’

 

She snorted. ‘I can _definitely_ handle that.’

 

‘Attagirl.’

 

Suddenly, his grin faded, and was replaced with a serious expression. ‘But, listen. If it goes so far as throwing some punches, make sure it _only_ goes that far. No further. I don’t wanna hear about a killing down there.’ He towered above her, watching her carefully. ‘Got it?’

 

She stared back at him, just as serious. ‘Do the Companions kill loudmouths often?’

 

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. That would be terrible for business—not to mention really dishonorable.’

 

She’d already figured as much, and shot him a wry smile. ‘Well, don’t worry. You have my word. Only scaring or hitting. Nothing more.’

 

‘Alright then.’ His smile was already blooming again, all the sternness gone.

 

‘So who is he?’

 

‘His name’s Elrindir. Bosmer barkeep at the Drunken Huntsman. He’s the self-important type, probably just needs to be deflated some.’

 

She nodded. ‘He’s as good as deflated.’

 

‘Let me know when it’s done, and you’ll get paid.’

 

A huge yawn chased the end of his sentence, and he rubbed one eye with a giant fist, further smearing the sooty kohl there.

 

‘You should really go to bed, Farkas,’ she pointed out. Half amused, and half disappointed.

 

‘Yeah, I really should. I’m going.’ Effortlessly, he reached down and hiked up his heavy pack, and slung it carelessly over one shoulder. ‘Make sure you don’t let that jerky go to waste.’

 

She patted her stomach, and smirked. ‘I’ve got plans for it.’

 

Then she dropped the smirk, and eyed him seriously. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. And the conversation.’

 

‘You don’t need to thank me.’ His gaze was suddenly arresting, and she could see the sincerity sitting there. ‘I really enjoyed meeting you. Merrin.’

 

Again, there it was—when he said her name, he almost sounded shy. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

 

For a second, they just stared at each other. Then the moment passed, and he spoke again.

 

‘Ria shouldn’t be long now. Try to enjoy yourself! This city’s more than half-decent, if you can get over Heimskr.’ He snorted a laugh at his own joke, and then he was walking the way she’d come, down to the living quarters.

 

 

All alone, Merrin found the empty mead hall peaceful. The sun was now rising in earnest outside, and the city was stirring awake to greet it.

 

The golden rays of what looked to be another fine summer day were streaming through the windows, lighting up the hall inside, and if she trained her ears, she could hear the sounds of other life—raised voices, children’s laughter, the lowing of a cow.

 

As she crunched into the ambrosia apple, she looked again around the room. Since it was empty, and not housing a brawl, she could actually take in the details.

 

She liked what she saw. The red banners hanging from the lofty rafters were also embroidered with golden thread, well taken-care of, dancing in a gentle draft that made a sea of dust motes swirl through sun beams. Impressive weapons were mounted to pillars, displayed in positions of pride around the centre of the long room; a glass warhammer, an ebony great sword, a wooden bow so intricately carved and finely polished that it glowed in the firelight. Shields much bigger than the ones downstairs were hanging from intervals in a ring around the room, about ten feet up the walls, and each one was resting over two mounted spears that still looked sharp.

 

Everything around her looked worn, well-used, and comfortable. Furniture was past its prime, but still serviceable. And when she looked down at the floor, she noted that whatever parts weren’t sturdy grey flagstone was wood that had been cared for well, with a certain lustre still clinging to the boards—except for under the chairs around the table. There, the floor was worn down, some of the wood’s color stripped away—changed and moulded by hundreds of years of booted feet.

 

Jorrvaskr seemed to emanate both history and pride—infuse it into the very air—and she found herself sighing contentedly. The starry eyed child inside of her was finally sitting in the very hall of her dreams...it hardly seemed real.

 

She’d only been alone five minutes when she heard the double doors opening again, and Farkas was proven true to his word.

 

Ria came up the stairs and walking toward her, looking fresh and rested in simple plainclothes. Her long brown hair tumbled loose in a cascade around her, and she didn’t have any warpaint on; with her thin face bare, she looked several years younger.

 

She smiled at Merrin as she approached, and Merrin found herself smiling back.

 

‘Good morning!’ The Imperial sounded cheerful. ‘You’re up early. It’s usually just me and Tilma, this time of day.’

 

‘No reason for me not to be. We all know I got enough sleep last night.’

 

It was nothing but the truth. After Aela had left the dormitory, it was Ria who’d put her hands on her hips and gotten down to business. With a cheerful efficiency, she had pointed Merrin towards a dresser for her to put her things into; when she’d hesitated, the woman had laughed, and reassured her that Jorrvaskr wasn’t home to thieves—other than Torvar filching unguarded mead.

 

She’d had precious little to unpack, but the Imperial hadn’t asked any questions; she’d seemed to sense that Merrin wasn’t open to them. Instead, she’d offered easy conversation about life in the mead hall—how she’d settle in quick enough, as long as she didn’t mind boisterous surroundings.

 

Torvar had eventually ambled out of the room with one last passing greeting, and Athis had ended up yanking his quilt over his head and going to sleep, but Ria had stayed by her side.

 

She’d even helped her pick a bed; when she’d asked if she could pick just any place to sleep, Ria had sagely shaken her head.

 

‘I wouldn’t touch that one, if I were you.’ She’d pointed to a bed in the corner, with blue quilting. ‘It’s Njada’s. She’ll go berserk if you touch it, or her stuff.’

 

And so she’d ended up with the bed across from it, sinking gratefully onto the mattress. It hadn’t been long before she’d admitted she needed rest, and it was then that Ria had offered to show her around the next day.

 

She’d skipped dinner, too tired to wait for it, and slept for about eighteen hours.

 

Now, in front of her, Ria laughed. ‘That’s fair. But no matter. It just means you’ll be better at memorizing as we go. Are you ready?’

 

She looked down at the remainder of Merrin’s breakfast on the table, and hummed thoughtfully.

 

‘You’re not going to want to have that food out when Tilma comes up. She might think you went and took it from the pantry!’

 

She took in the expression on Ria’s face, and thought of the sweet, tiny lady she’d met the day before.

 

_Appearances_ can _be deceiving. Yeesh._

 

With a quick hand, she swiped up the linen, wrapping up the food as she stood. ‘I’m ready.’

 

 

The sun came down to warm the two women as they headed down the steps and away from Jorrvaskr, and a gentle breeze played through their hair. When they reached the walkway, Ria pulled up short, and put slender hands on narrow hips as she sighed with satisfaction.

 

‘It’s a beautiful city,’ she said to Merrin, ‘with good people in it, and plenty to do. I’ve found that no matter where a person comes from, Whiterun ends up growing on them.’

 

‘How long have _you_ been here, then?’

 

‘A little less than six months,’ Ria answered, a bit ruefully. ‘But in that time, it’s become my home. And the Companions have become my family.’ The smile she gave was heartfelt and warm, and it gave Merrin a pang to stare at it.

 

‘So, where should we go first, then?’

 

The Imperial’s face brightened. ‘Oh, if I’m giving you the tour, we’ve _got_ to start at the Skyforge. It’s famous across Skyrim, across Tamriel, and it’s right in our backyard—our mysterious claim to fame.’ At this last, she wiggled her dark brows dramatically and grinned.

 

‘Ah...’ Merrin cleared her throat, feeling guilty. ‘Actually, I already saw it, yesterday. And talked to Eorlund. You know...errands,’ she finished, somewhat lamely.

 

Ria pursed her lips, but only for a second, and then she was readjusting her plan. ‘Alright, then. In that case, why don’t we just start from the top and work our way down? That way, we don’t miss anything. If you already know about a place, then just tell me and we can skip over it.’

 

‘That sounds good to me.’

 

And so they set off, with Ria one step ahead to lead the way. When they reached the bottom of the stone steps, the first thing she did was point up to Dragonsreach, in the Cloud District.

 

‘No no, that’s alright,’ Merrin cut in before the other woman could start. ‘I’ve already seen Dragonsreach, _and_ met Balgruuf. I’ve had enough of both for the foreseeable future.’

 

Ria smiled in a knowing sort of way. ‘Not a fan of the courts?’

 

Merrin snorted. ‘To put it mildly.’

 

‘That’s alright. They _can_ be pretty—’

 

‘You two, standing over there! Tell me—are _you_ true daughters of Skyrim? Will _you_ come and listen to the words of the mighty Talos?!’

 

It was the priest of Talos who had suddenly addressed them, yelling across the circular stone courtyard; they’d been talking all along over his shouted sermon, minding their own business. But now he’d lowered the hood of his terracotta robes, and was stretching out a beseeching hand as he stared the two of them down directly.

 

For a moment, Merrin didn’t move. Then she turned to her companion, and raised an eyebrow.

 

‘I’ve been wondering since I came to the city...what’s the deal with the priest?’

 

Ria chuckled at her. ‘That’s just Heimskr. He takes his sermons seriously, for sure. But he’s harmless.’

 

When they hadn’t immediately answered his call, the priest had gone back to his preaching; he squinted directly into the rising sun, and had both arms flung out in supplication. Behind him stood a carved statue of Talos himself; massive and stoic in his winged helmet, stony face impassive as he stared down at the courtyard and rested huge hands on the pommel of his sword.

 

As far as Merrin could see, only two people were actually paying Heimskr any mind; a shrivelled old woman with a tightly tied bonnet, and a Redguard man in tattered rags. Everyone else in the Wind District was either artfully ignoring him, or rushing by.

 

‘But isn’t what he’s doing illegal?’ She asked, doubtfully. ‘The Empire signed the Concordat a _long_ time ago. Worship of Talos is strictly banned—and this man is singing his praises in the streets.’

 

Ria shrugged. ‘Entirely illegal. You’re right.’

 

Merrin stared at the woman, exasperated. ‘Isn’t he in danger, then? Why has no one stopped him?’ She turned to look at the priest again; he’d fallen to his knees on the stone of the courtyard, and his face upturned to the morning sun was gleaming with sweat as he continued his impassioned wailing.

 

‘Because...’ Ria’s voice had softened, and so had her face. ‘The Dominion can outlaw worship, but they can’t _really_ control what people believe. And Balgruuf knows that. He remains impartial in the civil war, and well...we don’t have a strong Thalmor presence here.’ She shrugged again, eyeing Heimskr with obvious sympathy. ‘Most people just ignore him. I’d say, so long as he isn’t hurting anybody, there’s no point in taking it away from him. He cares about it too much.’

 

There was something about Ria’s words that comforted her. She’d lived a long time in Morrowind—a place native to another race, _and_ firmly in cooperation with the Empire. Back in Morrowind, there’d been no civil war, even on the frontier. Nobody worshipped Talos, as far as she knew, and nobody was bothered by the loss. Truth be told, she hadn’t been particularly bothered, either; Talos held no special place in her heart, even being a Nord.

 

But he’d been special to her father; until he’d died, there’d been a tiny shrine to Talos in his bedroom, the below-ground level of their home. He’d kept it hidden in his armoire...but countless times, she’d crept down the stairs to see him, and would find him kneeling in prayer at the shrine, a single candle lit.

 

Her father’s love for Talos had been a secret they kept—like others in their village, and countless others in their province. And it had always bothered her, on some level, that her father couldn’t pray under the open sun, unafraid. It soothed her to see even one man in this city, being openly devoted to his god. Even if his yelling _did_ make her flinch sometimes.

 

Ria put a hand on her arm then, jerking her from her thoughts, and tipped her head to their right.

 

‘Come on. I’ll walk you around, show you what’s what and who’s who.’

 

Merrin nodded, and as they started across the courtyard, Heimskr’s sonorous voice followed them for as long as it could.

 

‘But you were once man! Aye! And as man, you said, “Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown—born of the North—for my breath is long winter!”’

 

 

Thanks to Ria’s help, she discovered that the Wind District was home to most of the more affluent families in Whiterun; as they strolled down paths of cobblestone worn smooth, she would point a long finger at a big, stately house with carved lintels over its double doors, with a roof made of cedar shakes baking in the sun, and tell her about who lived there.

 

‘This isn’t actually a house. It’s our Hall of the Dead. You probably won’t be seeing much of it,’ Ria said with a wink. ‘The priest of Arkay who lives there is nice enough, but personally, the place gives me the creeps. And over here,’ she pointed, across the way, ‘is the home of Clan Battle-Born.’

 

‘The entire Clan?’ It was a _big_ house, impressively built, sitting on a small hill so it was higher than most others, with a circular stone patio that had its own central fire pit. Even now, it was lit, and the heat of the flames shimmered in the warm summer air.

 

Ria snorted. ‘No. Family is too big for that. But it’s pretty extensive—about eight people in all, under that roof. Olfrid is the patriarch, and then you’ve got his wife, their children and _those_ wives, and a grandson. Sweet kid, named Lars.’ She turned to Merrin, and rolled dark brown eyes.

 

‘As far as things go, they’re a pretty important family around here. Big money, big lineage, big influence. But between you and me, they’re sort of uppity, too. And Olfrid has proven himself to be a real blowhard.’

 

Merrin looked back at the house, and grimaced. ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind.’

 

And it kept up that way; Ria pointing, Merrin listening, learning things that she could only learn from a local.

 

‘This place gets rented by a couple of Redguards named Amren and Saffir—nice people. But their daughter reminds me of Njada sometimes.’

 

‘This house belongs to a woman named Uthgerd, but you’ll hardly find her here. She likes it at the Bannered Mare. Careful, though, she’s a real hothead. Calls herself The Unbreakable.’

 

‘That house on the end down there gets rented out by an Imperial woman, name of Carlotta Valentia. She runs the produce stand down in the market. I try to buy from her as often as I can...she has a hard go of it, mostly. She’s on her own, and is taking care of a daughter. Mila is such a _sweet_ little thing...’

 

They came around to another big house, and Ria stopped in front of it, smiling. ‘Now _this_ ,’ she gestured grandly, ‘is the home of our Eorlund Gray-Mane and his kin. Wife Fralia, two sons, and a daughter. No grandchildren yet.’ For a second, her expression darkened, but then she shook her head. ‘They’re good people, and I’m glad to know them. Stubborn as mules, though.’

 

Out of all the houses they’d passed so far, House Gray-Mane was Merrin’s favorite; it had clearly been built a _long_ time ago, and it stood in the sunshine with a sort of shabby elegance that time had done little to erase. Two wooden pillars flanking the silvered oaken doors had been carved into griffins in the old Nordic style, with ruffled plumage and long, carved beaks, claws lashing out at any visitors approaching. The eaves of the roof had fanciful gables, and the walls of the entire house had been washed in a pale grey paint—so that the house lived up to its name.

 

The house had a gated back yard, and inside was the source of the lowing she’d heard. A single shaggy brown heifer stared at her over the wooden fence with large, gentle eyes, munching cud and absently swatting at flies with her tail. She wasn’t the yard’s only occupant; a creamy-colored goat with a bell around its neck made discordant jingling noises as it searched for the perfect tuft of grass, and a plucky looking mule stood farther away still, dapple coat gleaming in the light of the sun, long ears standing at attention as he looked at her intelligently.

 

A small stable was sitting up against the back wall of the house, just one stall for each of the three animals, and her nose caught the sweet scent of hay baking in the sun. Crates of feed and sacks of grain sat leaning against the wooden walls, and as she stared, a fluffy white chicken came strutting from a stall, ruffling its feathers as it pecked at the ground.

 

The animals delighted her even more than the house, and she turned to look at Ria with sparkling eyes.

 

‘They have livestock! How is it they’re allowed to keep them in the city?’ In all her travel, the sight was still rare; by and large, if a family had animals, they kept them on a farm. Cautiously, she reached a hand out to the heifer, and when she didn’t protest, she started gently rubbing the space between her eyes.

 

Ria smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘Normally, it _wouldn’t_ be allowed. But a couple shops in the Plains District buy the milk from Odeth and Freya—the cow and the goat.’ She laughed. ‘And the Gray-Manes are the oldest family in Whiterun—they were the first to settle permanently, after the Companions. So they tend to get away with things, being a pillar of the community.’

 

All of a sudden, she looked disgruntled, and her smile disappeared. ‘That’s not to say they don’t put up with anything. The Battle-Borns give them a hard time in particular. “Nothing but meddlesome, smelly beasts”, to hear Olfrid Battle-Born tell it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And that’s nothing compared to what he says about the _people_.’

 

Merrin found herself already taking sides; irritated, she looked away from Odeth, and back to her guide.

 

‘Why would they be so openly disrespectful, of another important House? Do the two not get along?’ Suddenly, she remembered the morning she’d first walked into the city, and passing by a burly blond man who’d had an obvious problem with Eorlund.

 

Ria raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug, and sighed, looking upset.

 

‘It’s sad, really. From what I was told, the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns used to be the best of friends.’

 

_That_ news surprised her. ‘And what happened?’

 

Ria replied simply. ‘The war happened. When Ulfric started his rebellion, the two families took different sides. The Battle-Borns are loyal to the Empire; the Gray-Manes think Ulfric has the right idea. They can barely stand the sight of each other ever since.’

 

‘That _is_ sad.’ But it was nothing new; since she’d been a child, she’d seen the alienating effects of the war nearly anywhere she went.

 

Ria nodded, but then gave her a small, optimistic smile. ‘There’s never any harm in hoping it’ll change, though.’

 

From House Gray-Mane, they continued on, circling back to the courtyard they’d started in, and Ria filled her in about the things they’d passed over; a Temple to Kynareth, with its own bridge across the man-made stream, where the sick went to be healed, and where most women in the city chose to birth their children. Across the way, she pointed out a humble home, hardly more than a shack, where Heimskr apparently lived when he wasn’t giving passionate sermon.

 

Lastly, she nodded up at the massive tree in the centre of the courtyard.

 

‘And this is the Gildergreen.’ She gave a weak chuckle. ‘Sight to see, huh?’

 

Merrin was confused; the tree in front of them was hardly _green_. It speared up a good thirty feet into the air, twisting and regal, starkly beautiful against the hard blue sky. But it was completely dead—leafless, and as white as bones bleached by the sun.

 

‘Um....it isn’t green.’

 

‘Yeah.’ Ria seemed chagrined, as if the misnomer was her personal doing. ‘Apparently, it _used_ to be green, and people came from all over Skyrim to see it. But a year or so ago, it died. I’m not sure what happened, exactly. People still come from far away to see it—but it’s kind of embarrassing now, if you care about that sort of thing.’

 

With the Wind District covered, they set their sights on the Plain District next; as they strolled easily side by side and Ria gave greetings to people passing by, Merrin found herself staring at her.

 

She liked the girl, already; she had no obligation to be doing Merrin this favor, and yet she was obviously happy to be there. She exuded a cheerful, friendly sort of energy, and seemed happy just to be walking along. She lifted her face to the sun often, sighing happily, and had a kind word and a ready smile for anyone who spoke to her.

 

Despite being an Imperial, she was pretty tall—only a few inches shorter than Merrin, and they were a similar size. But where Merrin was statuesque, Ria was willowy; a long, graceful neck and limbs gave her a lanky appearance she wore well. Everything about her was tapered and fine-boned, from her slender fingers, to her straight nose with its narrow bridge that crinkled when she laughed. She had a jaunty step, and ears that stuck out a bit farther than usual, so they held her hair away from her face when she tucked it back. Something about it was endearing to Merrin.

 

If first impressions meant anything, it was going to be easy to be friends with this girl.

 

And if the Wind District was somewhat elegant and stately, the Plains District was colorful, shabby, and full of life; as they entered the merchant’s circle, there was no shortage of things to point out.

 

A red-headed Nord in a simple blue dress said hello to Ria as she passed, walking up the stairs they’d come from and toting an enormous basket of wildflowers, and Ria jerked a thumb back after she’d left.

 

‘That woman was named Ysolda. She’s an aspiring merchant. Friendly type, and smart, too. She does business with the Khajit when they come to the walls. And she says she wants to buy the Bannered Mare from Hulda one day.’ Then a laugh. ‘She’ll have a hell of a time talking Hulda into it, though.’

 

It was harder to concentrate here; as the morning had worn on, the city had opened up into full swing. The tantalizing smells of various foods cooking were mingling on the breeze, and the hooting laughter of two children weaving through the throng and chasing each other was competing with the shouts of peddlers, advertising their goods. But Merrin did her best.

 

‘You’ll want to know about the different market stalls,’ Ria encouraged her. ‘Let me show you what we have.’

 

She pointed to a woman with copper-colored hair first. ‘That’s Carlotta Valentia. Remember what I said about her? She sells all sorts of produce at her stand. Fruits and vegetables, bread sometimes. Milk and butter, too.’

 

‘I remember her. I bought some food from her and her daughter the other day.’

 

But Carlotta wasn’t looking happy right then, though. She was talking to a Redguard in garnet-red robes that were clearly expensive, and looking agitated as she waved her hands around, talking quickly.

 

‘Who is that she’s talking to?’

 

Ria gave her a look that spoke volumes. ‘That guy? His name is Nazeem. He owns Snowsand farm, a ways outside the city, and he thinks he’s a _really_ big deal.’ She snorted. ‘If I were you, I’d just avoid him as much as possible—lessens the chance of having to hear him speak.’

 

That was the opposite of an endorsement coming from her _very_ friendly guide, so Merrin just nodded her head and took the advice.

 

They took a few steps to the left, and a Bosmer man who was clearly a butcher stopped shouting about his ‘fresh cuts, straight from the wilds’, and called out to Ria instead. He was about their age, and good-looking, too, with a charming smile and attitude, and it wasn’t long they were standing there before Merrin was grinning to herself. With the way he talked to Ria, laughing and ducking his head and touching her arm, it was _obvious_ that he had more than just _rump roast_ on his mind.

 

By the time she managed to extricate herself, Ria had two spots of pink color on her cheeks, and one look at Merrin’s expression only had them deepening.

 

‘Sooo...’ She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitated, considered her options, decided to ask. ‘Who was _that_ lovely gentleman?’

 

‘ _Shhhh_!’ Ria hurried them away, pushing her along as the butcher smiled after them, and only turned to look at her when they were several paces away, still blushing. ‘That’s..uh..that was Anoriath.’

 

Merrin looked at her pointedly. ‘He seems nice.’

 

But Ria refused to take the bait. ‘He _is_ nice. He and his brother came to Skyrim from Valenwood, about ten years ago, so he says. He really likes to hunt, and sells most of what he catches here in the market.’ She averted her gaze, sounding casual. ‘We’ve gone hunting together in the plains a few times, since I’ve joined the Companions.’

 

It didn’t seem like she’d overstepped with her question, and that encouraged her. Grinning, Merrin reached out and elbowed the lanky woman.

 

‘Ria, out with it. He _obviously_ has a thing for you.’

 

Finally, Ria met her eye; her angular face was very pink, but her expression had gone resolute, and she nodded.

 

‘That may be true,’ she conceded, sounding wry. ‘But unfortunately, _I_ don’t have a thing for _him_. He’ll have to be getting his meat somewhere else.’

 

The answer caught Merrin off guard, from this girl she was just getting to know, and a delighted burst of laughter came exploding out of her. She grinned, mouth open in surprise, and stared at the Imperial with brown eyes dancing. ‘ _Ria!’_

 

Ria ducked her head, but she was grinning too. ‘Come on, stay focused. There’s more to see.’

 

They stopped momentarily at the third stall in the market, but it was empty and unattended. Ria stared at it, eyebrows furrowed.

 

‘Huh. She must be taking a day off. This is Fralia Gray-Mane’s stall—Eorlund’s wife. She’s usually here during the days, selling jewellery that Eorlund makes. Gorgeous stuff, if you can afford it.’

 

‘I usually can’t.’

 

‘Well...’ Ria looked thoughtful. ‘Stay with us, and do some jobs, and soon that might not be the case.’

 

She knew about both Belethor and Arcadia’s shops, and said as much, so Ria skipped them over; instead she led her through a short, angled alley between the two buildings, past a guard who was watching the market, looking bored.

 

The road led to another residential area. The homes here weren’t as nice as the ones in the Wind District, but they were apparently more affordable—and this part of the city didn’t see much bustle, so it was good for people who wanted peace and quiet.

 

‘There’s an old woman there’—Ria pointed to the house farthest down the way—‘named Olava the Feeble, that will tell you your fortune, if it interests you. She can read palms, tea leaves, crystals...she even does the old Nordic scrying.’ At that part, she shuddered. ‘Poor birds.’

 

_Poor birds is right._ Merrin looked at her, trying to mask her skepticism. ‘And do _you_ like going to have your fortune told?’

 

‘Nah.’ She mustn't have done a very good job, because Ria looked at her expression and grinned. ‘I’d rather have it be a surprise! Let me find out how my life is gonna go by me _living_ it, you know?’

 

Her words reminded Merrin suddenly and vividly of Hadvar, staring at her wistfully before she left his uncle’s house; saying he was the kind of man who believed in making his own fate.

 

She nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ As they circled back, she doubted very much she’d be visiting Olava.

 

They were in the last leg of the tour, now—walking down the last stretch of the main road, passing things she’d all seen before, and just didn’t have the names for.

 

‘This house belongs to a farmer named Severio. No wife or family—he’s been working hard to get his farm off the ground. Hopefully that giant didn’t set him back too much.’

 

‘This house is empty right now, for sale. It’s called Breezehome. Cute, isn’t it?’

 

The Imperial stopped walking in front of the smithy, and turned to her. ‘This is Warmaiden’s. It’s owned and run by a couple, and the wife does all the smithing. I think her name is Adrienne. But I don’t have much need to ever come down this way—Eorlund does all my repairs.’

 

Merrin grimaced; Adrienne hadn’t been kidding when she’d griped about Eorlund being tough competition. Even some people in her own city didn’t know her!

 

‘And _that’s_ the Drunken Huntsmen.’ Ria was pointing now to the tavern on the low hill, with torches blazing on either side of the doors, and a set of buck antlers mounted on the lintel.

 

‘This place is alright, but it’s pricier than the Mare. It’s owned and run by Anoriath’s brother, Elrindir. He’s...alright, too,’ she hedged. ‘The Huntsmen is technically an inn, but it never has vacancy—the rooms are full of permanent boarders, including a Dunmer mercenary.’ Then she chuckled. ‘Not like you’ll be needing to hire anyone, anymore.’

 

If Ria knew that someone had contracted the Companions to deal with Elrindir, she wasn’t letting on about it, and Merrin decided that now wasn’t the time to inform her if she didn’t. She just nodded at the other girl’s words, saying nothing, and let her continue.

 

‘And last, but not least, the guard’s barracks.’ She waved her hand with a flourish at the last building, directly ahead of them and beside the city gates; a low, square affair made of sturdy wood with tiny windows, and a widow’s walkabout on the roof that guards probably used as a vantage point.

 

‘If you’re ever in trouble and you can’t get to us for some reason, just alert the guards here and they’ll give you a hand. Commander Caius leads the city’s armed guard, and he’s more than capable at it. He and the Companions have banded together in the past, when a situation has called for it.’

 

Ria spun around to face her then. ‘And that’s it! The grand tour, finished. I hope it was helpful.’ She was smiling at Merrin, looking pleased with herself, and Merrin answered her honestly.

 

‘It _was_ helpful. I’m not used to having anybody to show me around when I end up somewhere new.’ She shrugged, and even though she felt a bit awkward, she smiled back. ‘It was actually fun, and I’m grateful. Thank you, Ria.’

 

Ria waved her hand to shoo away Merrin’s words, but her grin widened.

 

‘None of that, Merrin. You’re one of us now! I wouldn’t think of doing less.’ The woman’s dark eyes danced then as she looked at her. ‘If you’re _really_ grateful, how about you repay me by joining me for some early lunch, back at the Bannered Mare? I’d be _grateful_ for the company, and I can answer any questions you might still have.’

 

The morning had passed quickly as they’d wandered the streets, and the sun was beating down on both of their heads; the noontide meal wasn’t far off anyway... and she did have more questions. She smiled at the unexpected offer.

 

‘That sounds great.’

 

 

An hour later, Merrin was leaning back in an old wooden chair, feeling satisfied and at ease.

 

The pair of women had walked down to the Bannered Mare and taken seats close to the door, where lit sconces had splashed extra light over them and their table. They’d ordered bowls of venison stew and buttered bread, and as they’d eaten, they’d discussed a wide range of topics—predominantly about life as a Companion, and Jorrvaskr’s comings and goings. The Imperial was full of tips and advice.

 

Merrin had finished her stew before Ria, and now she was watching the lanky girl as she talked animatedly between mouthfuls. She was just finishing explaining to her that certain other members of the Companions would be willing to help her train, if she asked.

 

Apparently, both Torvar and Athis would be happy to help her with her one-handed weaponry, but couldn’t agree on which type of weapon was best. It was lucky that she didn’t use a shield, because Njada was the best shieldmaster they had, and getting help from her was like pulling teeth from a turtle. Vilkas was, of _course_ , the best at swordplay, and Ria herself was taking lessons from him as regularly as possible. But for agility training in her armor, she should go to Farkas...

 

‘...But I saw that you carry a bow as well. In which case, you should ask the Huntress for help. Nobody else in Jorrvaskr can shoot like her.’ Ria was using her final bit of bread now to sop up the last of her stew, and grinning at Merrin’s confused expression.

 

‘Who’s the huntress?’

 

‘Oh! Right, of course you wouldn’t know. But I figured you might’ve _guessed,_ ’ the Imperial teased.

 

‘It’s Aela. ‘The Huntress’ is her handle, the title she chose for herself, and it stuck. For good reason, too.’ Ria shrugged. ‘Nobody loves to hunt as much as her.’

 

Merrin thought for a second about Aela’s bedroom full of pelts and trophies, the old Draugr armor she wore, and the predatory glint in her green eyes, and nodded. ‘Yeah...the name makes sense.’

 

‘If she thinks you’re skilled enough not to chase her prey away, she’ll take you out on a hunt. That’s where the _real_ archery lessons happen.’ Ria shook her head then, grinning ruefully. ‘So far, I haven’t made the cut yet. The only Circle members who’ve taken me anywhere are Vilkas and Farkas.’

 

Merrin sat for a second, thinking. The Redguard serving girl saw that they’d both finished their meal, and came swooping in to take their bowls and plates. After she’d cleared out, Merrin looked again at the girl sitting across from her.

 

‘So...what about _you_ , then?’

 

Ria cocked her head. ‘What about me?’

 

Merrin smiled. ‘I’d like to know more about my guide, if she’s willing.’

 

‘Oh!’ Ria chuckled, and looked pleased. ‘That’s easy. You have questions? Ask away.’

 

Merrin had always been the curious type, and joining the Companions had _filled_ her with questions. Straightening up in her seat, she laced her hands together on the table before she spoke again.

 

‘You said you’ve been with the Companions for about six months now, right?’

 

‘That’s right.’

 

‘Well, if you don’t mind me asking, what made you want to join them? What life did you leave behind to do it?’

 

Ria made a thoughtful sort of humming noise at her questions, and then she leaned forward too, resting pointy elbows on the wooden table top. She was wearing a wry sort of smile when she spoke.

 

‘I don’t mind at all. We’ll get to know these things about each other sooner or later. Hmm. Well, you can tell just by looking at me that I’m not from Skyrim. I’m an Imperial, from Cyrodiil.’

 

Merrin smiled. ‘So then, is Ria a nickname? Do you have one of those typical, fancy Imperial names?’

 

Ria snorted a laugh, and cracked a wide smile, looking surprised. ‘You got me! You’re the first one to have guessed. Oh, well. The Imperial names _can_ be stuffy at times.’ Then she nodded. ‘Ria _is_ a nickname.’

 

‘Come on then,’ Merrin prodded, her smile turning sly. ‘Out with it. Your full name.’

 

In response, Ria pursed her lips, eyeing her seriously, assessingly, and for a second Merrin worried she’d crossed a line somehow.

 

But that mustn’t have been the case, because Ria’s mouth stretched into another sudden smile, and she gave Merrin a little mock bow.

 

‘Alright then. Riannen Avalencia Mellius, at your service, _madame_.’

 

_Oh!..._ With effort, Merrin managed to keep her face composed. But only barely.

 

‘Wow. That is a... _very_ fancy name...Riannen Avalencia.’

 

The Imperial obviously saw right through her, and eyed her pointedly. ‘It _is_ ,’ she agreed tartly. ‘And none of the other Companions know it. You seem like a sensible woman, though, and trustworthy. Sensible and trustworthy enough to keep this information to _yourself_.’

 

The words were about as subtle as a hammer, and as the two women eyed each other, a sort of understanding passed between them. Merrin saw the gesture for the hand of friendship that it was, and her bright eyes danced as they held the other woman’s.

 

‘Of course. Your secret is safe with me, Miss Mellius.’

 

‘Good.’ The Imperial’s darker eyes were just as full of merry mischief now. ‘Then we’ll stick with just Ria in company, if you don’t mind.’

 

Merrin nodded, but then a new thought hit her, and she asked another dubious question.

 

‘It is _Miss_ Mellius, isn’t it? Or did you leave more than just your name behind in Cyrodiil?’

 

The question took a second to sink in, and then Ria whooped a laugh that turned a couple of heads at other tables.

 

‘Oh,’ she gasped, when she’d composed herself. ‘Oh, I like you already. _Yes_ , you silly rabbit, it’s just _Miss_ Mellius. There’s no husband pining after me, back in Cyrodiil.’ The image must have amused her, because she started laughing again. ‘Me! When would I have the _time_?’

 

‘Men _do_ take up a lot of a woman’s time, don’t they?’ But Merrin said it fondly; she’d had only a man to raise her, and some of the dearest friends of her life were men.

 

‘That they do.’ But Ria sounded fond as well, and then she shook her head. ‘No, what I _really_ left behind in Cyrodiil was my family’s farm.’ She shrugged. ‘Much less exciting, and even _more_ time consuming.’

 

‘Tell me about it?’

 

Ria smiled. ‘It was my parents, my grandfather, my seven other siblings, and me.’

 

Merrin sucked in a breath. ‘Full house.’ She was thinking comparatively about the cabin she’d grown up in, empty but for her and her father.

 

‘Full is an understatement,’ Ria said with a chuckle. ‘Full, and busy. We grew crops _and_ raised livestock. We were out in the country, but not _too_ far from the nearest town, and once a week my pa would wagon up and take one of us with him to sell some of what we grew. Fruit, vegetables, milk, eggs, wool—you name it.’

 

‘It sounds...wholesome,’ Merrin offered. ‘A good place for a child to grow up.’

 

Ria smiled, but for the first time there was a tinge of sadness to it. ‘It was. And I love my family, very much. It was hard to leave them. But...’ her eyes met Merrin’s, and they spoke as she did.

 

‘In Cyrodiil, things aren’t so relaxed as they are here in Skyrim. When it comes to...certain things, tradition is very important, and—and—oh, piss on it.’

 

She heaved a great impatient sigh, and the fingers she’d been unconsciously wringing together came flying apart as she gestured with both hands.

 

‘I was sick to death of growing crops by the time I was of age—since I was a little girl, I’d always wanted to be a Companion. It was my life-long dream.’

 

Merrin’s stomach gave a funny thump at her words, but she didn’t say anything, and Ria continued.

 

‘I told my parents that, continuously, but neither of them took me seriously. I’m the baby of the family, and a girl. So despite what I wanted, all my _father_ was concerned with was marrying me off to the best possible match I could get.’

 

Merrin wrinkled her nose in surprise. ‘I don’t understand...I’ve done a lot of work in Cyrodiil, and I was impressed at how...Cosmopolitan and equal-opportunity it was. I saw as many women guards as men, and plenty of women mercenaries. There were even women in the high courts.’

 

‘That’s how it is in the _cities_.’ When Ria responded, her voice was forlorn. ‘But I lived in the countryside, and in the countryside, things are still set back quite a bit. Arranged marriages are still popular, and men and women have roles in society that they fill, and typically don’t cross out of.’

 

Merrin looked at the woman across from her, and felt a swell of sympathy; she couldn’t imagine being caged by her father, simply because of her sex. It wasn’t fair.

 

‘So, what happened, then? How did you come to leave Cyrodiil, and make your way to Jorrvaskr?’

 

‘My father died,’ Ria said simply. ‘No, no, don’t look like that,’ she said hurriedly when she saw Merrin blanch. ‘I wouldn’t have answered if I didn’t feel like it.’

 

Merrin winced. ‘I just wasn’t expecting that for an answer. I’m sorry, Ria, if I upset you.’

 

She knew that not every culture was as cavalier about death as the Nords, and was worried that she’d offended the first person in Jorrvaskr to show her real kindness.

 

But Ria didn’t look offended.

 

‘It’s _alright_ , Merrin, really.’ The willowy woman straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly looking far away. ‘I mourn him every day, it’s true. I know he only meant to take care of me. But what I said is the truth, too. His dying is the reason why I’m sitting here talking to you.’

 

‘How..so?’

 

‘Because, when he died, my mother wanted nothing to do with running the farm anymore—she gave my brothers their inheritances early. My oldest brother Cassian took over in his stead.’

 

She smiled. ‘There are ten years between us, but Cassian has always understood me in a way that the rest of my family didn’t, really. My two sisters had already been married off at that point...one of them happily, the other, much less so. And he looked at me, and I guess he saw that I was desperate to leave, because he intervened.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ She was almost too afraid to ask.

 

Ria still had a faraway look, and she pursed her lips again. ‘It sounds horrible, but my pa died at just the right time. A couple months before, he’d finally found me a ‘suitable man’. I was betrothed, and my wedding was to be early this past spring.’

 

Merrin was engrossed in the story, and her voice was horrified as she spoke. ‘No.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Even though he knew how you felt?’

 

‘ _Especially_ _because_ he knew how I felt. He knew I wanted my freedom, and he was afraid I would bolt, so he arranged for the shortest possible engagement.’

 

‘That’s _horrible_!’ Merrin cried, outraged.

 

‘That’s a well-meaning father in rural Cyrodiil,’ Ria replied, with some bitterness.

 

‘So what _happened_?’ Merrin demanded.

 

‘Well, my pa had used a lot of his favor to try and find me the wealthiest man who would have me—a middling country girl. He ended up with a man who lived far from us, who owned land just outside of Cheydinhal. His family name was Antaea. He sounded suitable, and interested, so they entered into negotiations. But since we lived so far apart, correspondence took a lot of time.’

 

‘You didn’t try to leave in that time?’ Merrin couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

 

Ria sighed. ‘Try to understand. That’s just how things _were,_ back at home. And I love my family. I didn’t want to anger and worry them by just taking off. I thought I could talk my pa out of the arrangement, if I stayed.’

 

She shook her head, long hair swaying around her elbows. ‘But I didn’t really get the chance. He sent a letter to the Antaea’s saying that they’d reached a satisfactory agreement, and that my betrothed should travel down to meet me in person. Then, a couple days later, he keeled over in one of the fields.’ She grimaced.

 

‘My brother knew what the last letter had said, and knew my betrothed was coming. I was a mess—grieving over my pa, and feeling like a bird in a cage. Cassian came to me one day after sundown, and told me that he would get me out. He said that when my betrothed made it to our farm, that he would break off the engagement and send him back to Cheydinhal.’

 

Merrin let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and nodded slowly. ‘So that’s how it happened? Your brother broke off your engagement and sent the Antaea man home? And you were finally free to come here?’

 

For a single beat, a shadow flitted across Ria’s face, and she looked down at the table.

 

But in the next second, it had passed. She gave Merrin a small smile, and nodded as she met her gaze again.

 

‘Yeah, that’s how it happened. Cassian gave me leave to travel. None of the rest of them really approved—especially not mother—but I guess they could finally see that I was serious. My _next_ oldest brother, Percius, came with me in a carriage, and we crossed the northern border into Falkreath hold. From there, we made our way to Whiterun, and when my brother’s last-ditch attempt to change my mind wouldn’t work, he went back home to Cyrodiil.’

 

She grinned then, and spread out both hands in a flourishing motion, sounding cheerful. ‘And six months later, here I am! A happy whelp, living the dream and learning with the mighty warriors of Jorrvaskr. Having lunch with you.’

 

Merrin looked at the other woman carefully. What had she not said, a few seconds before? For a second, she considered calling Ria out—asking her what she was hiding.

 

But just as quickly, she decided against it. Obviously, it was something private, and she was _hardly_ in a position to be digging around in people’s guarded secrets. Swallowing, she made herself smile in return and say something.

 

‘I’m really happy for you, Ria. It’s wonderful that you finally made it here.’

 

Whether the tense moment had been real or imagined, it had passed; Ria nodded at her, smiling warmly, her eyes no longer seeming far away.

 

‘Thank you. It’s wonderful to be here.’ Then she propped one elbow back on the table, and rested her pointed chin in one hand, eyeing Merrin with fresh interest.

 

‘What about _you_?’

 

Merrin tensed; she’d been dreading this question. She liked Ria, but until she had her situation a little more figured out, she had no more intention of telling her about Helgen or the dragon or Dalan Dufont than she had of telling Aela. Slowly, she raised her brows.

 

‘ _What_ about me?’ She asked cautiously.

 

Ria must’ve seen right through her, because she snorted and waved her other hand dismissively.

 

‘Oh, relax. It’s obvious that you don’t want to talk about where you came from or what brought you to Whiterun. All in good time.’

 

Merrin blushed for the second time in as many days, embarrassed and awkward. Was she so obvious? She opened her mouth to respond, but Ria kept talking.

 

‘I just want to know what it is that made you want to be a _Companion_.’

 

_That_ question gave Merrin pause, snapping her out of her prickle of embarrassment, and she looked at Ria in surprise. A silence stretched between them then, with Ria patiently waiting; Merrin was the one to break it, in a careful tone of voice.

 

‘You know...out of all the people who live in Jorrvaskr, you’re the _only_ person to actually ask me that.’

 

‘You can’t _really_ say that yet, seeing how you still haven’t met Vignar or Brill.’ Ria grinned playfully at her, eyes teasing. ‘But it doesn’t much matter— _I’m_ the most inquisitive, caring, friendly person they’ve got. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling them.’

 

Despite herself, Merrin let out a laugh, and then abruptly sank back against the wooden rungs of her chair, feeling relieved.

 

Ria wasn’t going to push her for information—that much was clear. What could it hurt to be honest? Pushing her unruly waves back out of her face, Merrin hit the other woman with a smirk.

 

‘Alright. So you want to know why I wanted to be a Companion. Do you swear not to laugh?’

 

Ria’s eyes danced, and she placed a hand over her heart—the girl was obviously a huge tease. ‘Solemnly.’

 

Merrin’s eyes narrowed in response, but her smile widened all the same. ‘I don’t know if you’ll believe me, actually. It’s corny. But it’s the truth. And I think you of all people will appreciate it.’

 

‘ _Out_ with it, woman!’ Ria slapped the same hand down on the wooden table top for emphasis. ‘You’re as bad as Torvar. I want answers!’

 

Merrin waited another second, and then confessed. ‘It was actually _my_ childhood dream, too. Same as you.’

 

Ria didn’t laugh; she looked dumbfounded for a full second, and then leaned back in her chair and _tsked_ , looking accusatory.

 

‘Really?’ She swatted at one of Merrin’s hands. ‘You’re pulling my leg! I told Torvar when I was new that it had been my lifelong dream to be a Companion, and he opened his big _mouth_ the next night in front of everyone. Now most of them pick on me about it.’ She huffed. ‘And now you too, I guess.’

 

‘No, I promise—I’m telling the truth.’ Merrin held both hands out in a peaceable gesture, trying to look convincing. ‘I told you it was corny. But it’s something we have in common.’ She huffed. ‘Torvar really did that? Jeez,’ she muttered. ‘And he seemed so harmless last night.’

 

‘He _is_ harmless, unless you count gossip as a weapon.’ Ria huffed, and shook her head. ‘But enough about him. Are you serious? You really mean it?’

 

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she replied earnestly. ‘I have no reason to lie. My da raised me on stories about the Companions from as early as I could understand, and never stopped. As I got older, he just got fresher stories...’ She smiled at the memories. ‘One of my favorites is the one about Skjor and the hundred-and-one Orc berserkers.’

 

Ria’s expression had softened since she’d last seen it, and after a second of silence, a slow smile tugged itself free from one side of her mouth.

 

‘Apparently, Kodlak was there, too,’ she said dryly. ‘And Skjor insists that it was more like _forty_ berserkers. But he’s just being modest.’ She propped both elbows onto the table again, and leaned into them, her smile widening as she looked at Merrin.

 

‘It’s one of _my_ favorite stories, too. Alright, I believe you. In that case, it’s good to have another nostalgic sap on board. Good on your pa to raise you that way.’

 

‘There never was much I could fault him on.’ The Gods knew _that_ was the truth. __  
  
‘So where is he now? Your pa?’ Ria was still wearing an easy smile.

 

Merrin hadn’t been expecting the question, even though she should have, what with all the talk of fathers. And even though it had been so long, a sharp little pain dug its way into her chest. She fumbled on an answer, smile fading, before just looking sort of helplessly at Ria. Then she hissed out a slow breath and propped her chin in one hand.

 

‘Hopefully in Sovngarde.’ She stared levelly at the other woman as she said it, and tried her best to answer as levelly as she had.

 

Ria blanched; her cheeks and neck turned red, and her mouth popped open on a surprised little ‘o’. Looking mortified, she reached out with one thin hand and wrapped it around Merrin’s wrist.

 

‘Oh, Merrin. I’m so sorry. It was thoughtless of me to ask like that. I—’

 

But Merrin shook her head. ‘You did nothing wrong. We’ve just traded places, from the looks of it. It’s like you said—I wouldn’t have answered if I hadn’t felt like it.’ The Imperial looked like she needed comforting, so Merrin reached out and patted the hand gripping her wrist.

 

‘I still should be more careful! I really am sorry.’ Ria took a shaky breath, and then let go of her wrist, only to grab her free hand instead and squeeze. ‘When...?’

 

She knew what Ria was asking, and supplied the answer automatically. ‘Four years ago, this past Mid Year. And then I picked up and left _my_ family farm behind...so to speak.’

 

‘Four years...may the gods rest his soul.’ Ria’s eyes were actually glassy with unshed tears, and that combined with the warmth of her hand made Merrin’s stomach jump at the intimacy; she wasn’t used to strangers caring about her.

 

‘I’m sure they have.’ Like always, it was hard to talk about her father for any length of time, and her throat was tight as she squeezed Ria’s hand. ‘Really, Ria. It’s alright. I’m alright. It’s not rude to ask about somebody and then find out they’re dead.’

 

The sensible words hung between them for a while, and then Ria sniffed and shook her head; the blotchy blush was dying away, but slowly.

 

‘Well, at least let me buy you a drink. Damn.’ She grimaced at herself. ‘I don’t think you were expecting such heavy talk over a bowl of stew with someone you hardly know.’

 

‘Well,’ Merrin said slowly, ‘to be honest, I wasn’t. But I really don’t mind.’ It was the truth.

 

Ria looked at her doubtfully, and raised a hand to signal Hulda for a drink, but Merrin surprised herself by reaching out and catching that hand with hers, and pulling it back down to the table.

 

‘I appreciate the offer, Ria, but I can’t stay for a drink. I really should get moving—Farkas gave me my first job this morning, while I was waiting for you.’

 

Ria looked embarrassed again, and slipped her hands out of Merrin’s. ‘Yeah, I’ll bet! You’re just running away because I put my foot in my mouth.’ She sighed.

 

‘Athis is always telling me that I’m too meddlesome. But I’m not, I swear! At least,’ she colored again, and her eyes fell to the table top. ‘I try not to be.’

 

She looked so forlorn that Merrin felt an overwhelming urge to comfort her, and she leaned forward in her seat so that she could rest a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

 

‘Hey, hey. None of that! I swear, Ria, I’m telling you the truth. I’m not running away, I just have work to do. I’m not mad at you for anything.’

 

Ria looked up again, with an expression that said she was hesitant to trust her words. ‘Are you _sure_? I feel like an ass. I wanted to show you around to _help_ you. Not to end up upsetting you. You’re new here, and...’

 

‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Merrin said firmly. ‘It’s like you said—sooner or later, our stories will come out. You didn’t upset me at all.’

 

More needed to be said. She could feel it in the air around the table. But what if she said too much? The wrong thing? Internally, she cursed. She’d been living and working alone for too long, it seemed. Resolutely, she opened her mouth.

 

‘And...’

 

_The truth! Just tell her the truth!_

 

‘And...it’s actually more than that. You’ve been really _kind_ to me, over the last couple days, and you’ve helped me a lot. I’m...not used to that sort of thing,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I’ve really enjoyed it. You’ve made me feel welcomed, and I’m happy to have met you, Ria. Thank you.’

 

As soon as the words were out, she felt less foolish about them—and they obviously had the desired effect. Ria’s cheeks pinked, and the sad look melted off of her face, to be replaced by a slow, dazzling smile.

 

‘Really?’

 

She found herself smiling back in response. ‘Really.’

 

‘Well...okay, then.’ Ria let out a laugh that was more like a giggle. ‘You’re welcome, then. I’m glad!’

 

At that point, the serving girl came swishing over to ask if they’d like anything else to eat or drink, and Ria shook her head at her.

 

‘Nope, nothing else today. We’ve got work to do.’

 

She ignored Merrin’s protests as she covered the cost of _both_ bowls of stew, and then cheerfully shoved her hand away when she tried to repay her.

 

‘As if. _I_ asked _you_ to lunch, remember? Now,’ she grinned. ‘You really have a job to do for Farkas?’

 

Merrin eyed her beadily for one hard second, and then sighed in defeat. ‘Yeah.’

 

‘Your first real job! Exciting,’ she replied sagely. ‘Do you know where you’re going? I’ve gotta head out on a job of my own, but I can give you directions if you need them.’

 

She smiled, warmed by yet another kind offer. ‘No, I should be fine to find my own way. I had a pretty good guide to show me around, you know.’

 

Ria’s cheeks went pink again at the words, and she looked pleased. ‘Right, right. Well then...good luck! You’ll have to tell me how it went... _Shield-Sister_.’

 

The title was still so new that hearing it gave her goose-bumps, and she rubbed one of her arms as she nodded, and the two women stood to leave.

 

‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

 

 

As she walked down the main road of the Plains District on her way back to Jorrvaskr, she felt unabashedly triumphant, and turned her face up to greet the sun just as Ria had earlier, with new-found appreciation.

 

The job at the Drunken Huntsman had been easier than she’d anticipated. Farkas had been right; when it came down to it, Elrindir had been all bark and no bite. Olfrid Battle-Born was a frequent patron at his tavern, and apparently a good friend too, because the Bosmer had taken up his stubborn mantle and started bashing the Gray-Manes—and Stormcloaks in general—to anybody that dared to talk to him. Not _exactly_ surprising, when you considered the way the Bear of Eastmarch treated elves.

 

When she’d confronted him, he’d said some things that gave her cause to believe that he’d been denying service to anybody who disagreed with him—so that was probably what Farkas had meant by ‘throwing his weight around’.

 

Fortunately for her, he’d _actually_ looked to weigh very little; he’d been a lanky mer, with not a lot of muscle, and the _threat_ of having his ass handed to him had been enough to get him to shut up, in the end. But it hadn’t been a very willing agreement, and she was glad that the Bannered Mare was apparently the nicer tavern, because she had the distinct feeling that she was officially less than welcome in the Huntsman.

 

She noticed Anoriath waving cheerfully at her as she passed by his stall in the market, and returned the wave feeling only slightly guilty as she made her way to the stairs.

 

At some point she’d run into Farkas again, and get paid. But at the moment, she was focused on just one thing: armor. Eorlund had made her a generous offer, and she fully planned to take him up on it—she was going to need good, quality armor if she wanted to do any dangerous jobs.

 

She didn’t have enough gold to pay him for the set they’d make, but again, doing jobs would fix that problem, and she’d make good on her debt. First, she needed protection.

 

At the core of it, she was excited—excited to work a forge again, and especially one as amazing as the Skyforge. It had been years since she’d done more than basic repairs, and she was looking forward to getting back into the stride of things. Never in her wildest dreams had she _actually_ believed she’d get to work alongside _the_ Eorlund Gray-Mane.

 

The man himself was standing in view on the rocky outcrop that held the Skyforge, and he raised a hammer in salute to her as she climbed the stairs to Jorrvaskr. She raised a hand in return, and smiled as he lumbered back to the forge, basking in the optimism blooming in her chest.

 

Her first official day was turning out to be better than she’d dared to hope for.

 

 

What was that old adage, about spooking off a good mood by noticing it was there? She and the smith hadn’t been talking for very long before things went decidedly awry.

 

When she’d arrived, Eorlund had sat and listened by the forge as she’d described the set of armor she was looking to make; the longer she’d talked, the more incredulous he’d looked.

 

She’d been expecting some push back from the older smith; it was an unconventional blend of pieces, and she knew it. But when she’d finished her description, he’d actually scoffed in reply, and her anticipation hadn’t done much to prevent her getting offended. Her design was more than sound, and she knew it—she’d been relying on it for the past four years. But he was treating her proposal as if it were preposterous.

 

In a span of minutes, they’d found themselves in the midst of an unexpected but passionate argument, and now Merrin was shaking her head in disbelief. Was this the effect that Eorlund had on _all_ of his clients?

 

_No_ , an inner voice sighed, snidely. _Of course not. Only_ you _would get so worked up over a suit of armor that you’re tempted to punch the greatest smith in Tamriel._

 

But it obviously _wasn’t_ only her; Gray-Mane may have been modest, but he was _bullheaded_ beyond anything she’d imagined!

 

As if he could hear her thoughts, Eorlund fixed her with a hard look and pursed his lips as he took a step back. ‘Way you have it, half of this armor won’t even be steel, girl. I work with _steel_.’

 

She stared back at him just as stubbornly. ‘You’re more than qualified as a leather worker. I know you are. You didn’t get to being the best smith in Skyrim on steel alone.’ She put one hand on a cocked hip, and when she spoke she sounded exasperated. ‘But if it bothers you that much, I can focus on all of the leather work, and you needn’t concern yourself.’

 

Eorlund huffed. ‘Don’t think I don’t see the trick in those words. I’m not so easily baited.’ Still eyeing her, he set down the hammer he’d been holding and crossed his arms, muscles tightly banded. ‘I _could_ work the leather, aye. But this design...it’s strange, and seems ill-favored. I don’t normally get requests like this.’ He snorted. ‘And when I do, I don’t usually _fill_ them.’

 

‘Why not?’ She was trying to sound level, and not really succeeding.

 

‘Well, for starters, it isn’t even a _full_ design!’

 

She huffed, incredulous. ‘ _Yes,_ it _is_.’

 

‘In the name of—there are pieces _missing_ , girl!’ He’d abandoned his restrained stance somewhere along the sentence’s way, and now he was waving both huge hands around. ‘Full design, my eye!’

 

‘I’ve told you everything I’ll need,’ she snapped. ‘I came up with this design myself, tailored _specifically_ to my style and my needs. It will serve me well.’

 

For a second, they just stared each other down. Then Eorlund quickly shot out a question, already sounding triumphant, as if he were proving his point.

 

‘And what for a cowter piece?’

 

‘I’ll go without,’ she answered just as swiftly. ‘I don’t need them.’

 

‘I’m sure your elbows would disagree.’

 

She gritted her teeth. ‘My _elbows_ will be fine. I’ll protect them with my form instead – the form I’ll still _have_ without a solid steel tube for a rerebrace.’

 

He grumbled to himself, bushy brows drawn together. ‘Oh, I see. Of _course._ And what about the demi-gaunts? Been a _long_ while since a warrior asked me for a pair of those ninny things. _Never_ saw him again after that, either,’ he said, eyeing her steadily to make his meaning clear.

 

‘I don’t just use a sword. I shoot a bow at range. I need my fingers uncovered to do that.’ Merrin glared. ‘Hard to shoot a bow in a pair of steel mittens.’

 

‘Hard to use a bow _or_ a sword, when you’ve got no fingers,’ the older smith retorted.

 

Merrin threw up _her_ hands then, and her voice rose with them. ‘You’re the most sought-after smith in the continent! And you’re acting like this is the first set of hybrid armor anyone’s ever asked you to make. There are more ways to fight than just the _Nordic_ way, you know.’

 

Eorlund bristled, and drew up to his full and considerable height. His booming voice more than matched her own, and he wasn’t even shouting.

 

‘A fact I know well—one I definitely don’t need a newblood remindin’ me of. I _am_ the finest smith we’ve got, and you’ve got it wrong. It ain’t that I only make Nordic arms and armor. It’s that I only make _safe_ arms and armor. I didn’t make it to being the best by sellin’ folks their buryin’ clothes.’

 

For several long moments, the only sound was the distant wail of Heimskr’s sermon. Merrin bit back several things she wouldn’t allow herself to say. Then she forced her balled up fists to unclench, forced herself to let out a breath, and raised her brows on a safer reply.

 

‘You know...you’re awfully concerned with safety, for someone who doesn’t even wear a shirt when he works the forge.’

 

For a second, Eorlund looked downright constipated, and puffed out his chest like he had some indignant reply. But then he surprised her, and laughed instead—a gusty, begrudging sort of laugh that made his serious blue eyes twinkle again. He shook his head as he looked at her, and then stroked a huge hand over the wild hair of his beard. A hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth, and some of the tension that had built up between them abruptly melted.

 

‘Maybe you’re right about that, girl.’

 

‘I’m right about the _armor_ ,’ she persisted. ‘I’m not just making this up. Well – I mean, I _did_ make it up, but –’ She cursed. ‘I _know_ this armor will perform, Eorlund, because it’s the same build I’ve been _using_ for the last four years.’ _And I shouldn’t have to tell you that to get you to listen to me._ She crossed her arms and looked at him pointedly.

 

‘...Huh.’ For a few seconds, Eorlund looked properly sheepish. ‘Guess I shoulda figured it was somethin’ like that, what with your...hm.’ Then his brow furrowed, making him look as if an idea had just occurred to him. When he met her gaze again, he was actually looking annoyed.

 

‘Hold a minute. You mean to tell me that you’re coming to _me_ askin’ for me to replicate a suit that some average, backwater smith made you? Me?’

 

After only a second of struggle, Merrin very generously bit her tongue on the words trying to leap from her mouth, and settled on _somewhat_ less rude ones.

 

‘That’s big talk, for someone who never even _saw_ the armor. Not to mention _very_ modest. I _did_ grow up hearing about what a _modest_ man you are, Eorlund.’ She stared at him pointedly. ‘This must be what my da was on about.’

 

Another moment of incredulous staring; another begrudging gust of laughter.

 

‘You little bobcat,’ he eventually chuckled. ‘Whoever your da was, he earned his rest, raisin’ up a mouth like yours.’

 

His stance loosened, no longer confrontational, and then he hit her with a sudden grin. ‘But you’re right, again. Lucky for _you_ , I think some sass is a good thing. There’re times t’keep your yap shut, and times to open it. I’ve not yet gotten so old an’ stuffy that I can’t take a call-out when I need one.’

 

Merrin was still riled up, and she huffed at him. ‘Good! And I’m not so young and inexperienced that I don’t know when to hold my ground.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The design is good. My work is good. Hear me out...please,’ she tacked on begrudgingly. ‘I _very_ much would like to work with you, Eorlund. It would be an honor. But only if you’re willing to listen to me.’ Then she snapped her jaw shut, and stood there, breathing hard.

 

He stared at her for a long moment, and then snorted before picking his hammer back up off the workbench.

 

‘Well, chin-up, then. If you work a forge as fancy as you put up a fuss, then we’ll do just fine.’

 

She took in the look on his face, the hammer in his hand, the words he’d said, and a suspicious little bubble of hope came sneaking into her chest. ‘Wait,’ she said cautiously. ‘Does that mean...you’ll do it? You’ll build from my design?’

 

‘Shor’s bones, girl,’ he rumbled. ‘But you’re like a dog worryin’ the meat off a bone. _Yeah_ , that’s what it means. We’ll work with your design. _Mind you,’_ he raised his voice and kept talking over any reply she might’ve made, ‘I still got problems with those bare fingers. And we’ll be making some improvements. I don’t put out work that you could get just _any_ old place.’

 

Her anger deflated at his words almost as quickly as it had come, pushed out by rising, bubbling excitement, and her face broke into a grin. She was pretty sure the lofty tone to his words was unintentional, and it was on the tip of her tongue to tease him about it. But she reeled herself in at the last second; whether or not he said he liked some sass, she thought it was probably best not to push it for now. Instead, she did her best to sound serious and innocent.

 

‘Of course. Where should we begin?’

 

The older man probably saw right through her, because he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

 

‘I suppose we’ll start with the breastplate. Most sensible piece in the whole damn lot.’ He turned from her, jerking a thumb off to the side. ‘Grab that pair of tongs over there, an’ let’s stop burning daylight.’

 

‘Let me get dressed. Where do you keep your aprons?’

 

‘Wuh?’ He turned back around to face her, looking confused, and then _pshhed_ when he realized what she was talking about.

 

‘Don’t have any of them things. Have no use for ‘em.’

 

She could only sigh and shake her head, before she went and grabbed the tongs.

 

‘Of course you don’t.’

 

 

The sun was a fiery ball falling back behind the mountains by the time Eorlund announced that they’d done enough for one day, and Merrin was relieved to hear it; the combined heat of the forge and the summer day had her drenched in sweat, and her muscles were well and truly aching from all the work she’d done.

 

It was obvious that the older smith had been testing her, to get an idea of her skill – he’d let her take the lead in most everything they’d done, asking _her_ questions, having _her_ make decisions. It had been a long time since she’d actually forged something new, and now her body was making her keenly aware of just _how_ long.

 

But it was satisfying work, that she loved; as Eorlund cleared the day’s ashes and slag from the forge and she swept away the bits of oxidized debris, she was smiling widely. As she put aside the unused coal, she was feeling proud of herself.

 

There’d been no more arguing since they’d gotten down to work, and Eorlund chuckled to himself when he turned to look at her, wiping sweat from his face.

 

‘Alright then, girl. Same time tomorrow?’

 

‘Same time tomorrow. Have a good night.’

 

He gave a dry smile, and a long winded sigh. ‘I’ll do that, soon as I’ve taken a bath.’

 

Merrin could only agree; as they parted ways and she walked back towards Jorrvaskr, she could feel the layer of sticky sweat and grime that coated her from head to toe. _She_ needed a bath, too. Badly.

 

She didn’t run into anybody on her way through the hall, and in another minute she was standing in the new recruit’s room, staring apprehensively at a carved wooden armoire, and feeling again like she was trespassing.

 

It was Ria’s armoire; during their lunch in the Bannered Mare, Ria had told her about what she considered to be one of Jorrvaskr’s greatest features – the spring. She’d noticed on her first day in the city that Whiterun was full of rivers and pools, so she hadn’t been terribly surprised when Ria informed her that they had a lot of water running _under_ ground, too.

 

This part of the province was apparently riddled with springs and underground streams, and some of them were naturally warm. And the warriors of Jorrvaskr didn’t bathe in traditional tubs, because they were lucky enough to have direct access to one such warm spring, right underneath their mead hall. Some of the hall’s first inhabitants had created a convenient entrance to the springs, and the Companions had been soaking in them ever since.

 

Ria apparently had more foresight than _she_ did, because she’d told her she’d probably be needing a bath soon, and a fresh set of clothes to change into. She’d looked Merrin over casually at the table before announcing that they were ‘basically the same size’, and telling her that she was more than welcome to borrow some clothes until she had a chance to buy more of her own. Merrin had blustered at the generous offer, telling her guide that it was _too_ generous. But, true to form, the Imperial had merely laughed off her words, insisting that she make herself at home.

 

And now, several hours later, here she was – standing in the bunk room, sweat chilling down her back, and staring hard at the wooden doors of the armoire.

 

It was hard because _both_ things were true; it _was_ too generous, much more so than she was used to, and the simple act of kindness was making her squirm. But she _did_ need a bath, and she _didn’t_ have any other clothes of her own.

 

After another long moment of feeling like some sort of intruder, Merrin shook her head with a sigh, and forced herself to reach out and open the doors. She was alone in the room, but she still double-checked to make sure no one was watching before she reached inside. She settled quickly on a deep blue cotton tunic with laces at the neck, and a pair of cotton breeches that looked like they would be long enough, nearly the same shade of brown as her own. Then she reached down to the shelf below, yanked out a clean towel, and quickly closed the doors before she all but skittered out of the room.

 

She hurried down the hallway, following the instructions Ria had given her, and made a left turn back down the way that she’d taken to get that shield to Aela. But she passed by the Huntress’ room; her goal was the wooden door at the very end of the hall, identical to the other two, save for the woven mat on the ground in front of it. This was apparently the door to the baths.

 

When she flicked the metal latch and the door came whispering open, she saw for herself that it was true. Rather than any room constructed of wood or even cobblestone, the door gave way to a rough stone tunnel, carved from the rock that the city stood on. The tunnel was forked, and as she’d been instructed to, Merrin headed for the split on the right – the side the _women_ of Jorrvaskr used. There were no steps, but rather just carven stone that was slightly damp, curving gently downward and around a corner. The tunnel would have been pitch black, if not for the frequent lamps affixed to the walls, with thick wicks burning tallow.

 

It was significantly warmer down here, and steamier too – undoubtedly because of the water. After a few more seconds of walking downward, the curve of the tunnel evened out, the sound of moving water got much louder, and she came into the actual cavern of the spring.

 

_Wow_.

 

The light from the fires bounced off of every surface here, sending playful shadows dancing over the rocky walls, turning the slow-moving water into molten gold and bronze. Steam rose up visibly from the water, only to gather on the sloped ceiling of the cavern and then come rolling back down. At the far end of the cavern, a single tiny window had been chiselled through several feet of rock – presumably for a return of fresh air underground – and the last fading rays of the day’s sunlight were glimmering through.

 

Mesmerized, she took a step forward.

 

To her right, there were several benches carved straight out of the stony wall, with cubby holes to store clothing in. To her left was a solid wall of stone – a natural outcropping that jabbed midway into the spring itself, and acted as a curtain providing privacy for anybody who wanted it. The Companions had taken advantage of nature brilliantly when they made their entryway, and so long as you didn’t wander beyond the end of the outcrop, the men and the women couldn’t see each other.

 

It was more than good enough for her; eagerly, Merrin stripped out of her filthy clothes, and shoved them and the clean ones into two different cubby holes. She left her towel on the nearest bench, and her boots in a tangle on the floor. Lastly, she pulled the leather tie from her hair that had been keeping it out of her face while she forged, and then she walked to the edge of the pool.

 

There were no steps descending into the water – just the natural decline of the pool itself, smooth and warm on the soles of her bare feet.

 

As far as Ria was concerned, the spring was one of the main reasons why Ysgramor’s original Companions had picked this _exact_ location for their mead hall; as Merrin waded waist deep into water that was deliciously warm, she whole-heartedly agreed with her. It was so perfect that she let loose a long groan of satisfaction, before submerging completely.

 

She was in no rush, and evidently she had the place to herself for the time being. She spread her arms and legs out wide, and just let herself come floating back up to the surface. As her face emerged, she broke into a lazy grin.

 

 

She’d taken longer than she’d meant to in the baths, and night had truly fallen while she’d been soaking in the steamy waters. She’d toweled her hair until it was just damp, and slithered gratefully into Ria’s clean clothes before she’d grabbed her boots and padded back up the tunnel to the sleeping quarters. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and now that she was fresh and clean, both she _and_ her stomach had one thing in mind: dinner.

 

She pulled the door to the baths shut behind her as she stepped back into the side hall, and the cool air of the lower levels was such a stark contrast that it made her shiver with delight. She was feeling so content that she was actually humming to herself as she made her way back to the recruit’s room. She didn’t notice anything behind her until she felt a hand grab her shoulder.

 

‘Merrin!’

 

‘ _Shor’s balls!’_ Merrin all but shrieked, and came whirling around, heart hammering, not knowing who to expect. It turned out to be Farkas staring down at her, looking torn between sheepish and pleased.

 

‘ _Farkas!’_

 

‘Hey, jeez...I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry about that.’ He let his hand fall from her shoulder, and shook his head. ‘I’ve been looking around for you for a little while now.’ Suddenly he looked her over again, and smiled teasingly. ‘You’re looking clean.’

 

Her heart was still pounding in her chest, and she huffed at him with eyes narrowed before she replied.

 

‘So are _you_.’

 

It was the truth; when she’d seen him last, he’d been grubby from the road, wearing muddy armor and with a face full of kohl. Now he was scrubbed clean and wearing plainclothes – breeches and an undyed cotton tunic. He’d obviously shaved, and when it was clean, his dark hair was nearly as thick as hers.

 

The most noticeable difference were the eyes, though; there wasn’t a trace of black warpaint around them, and in its absence he looked younger, softer...less like a hardened warrior.

 

The eyes themselves were looking _very_ blue, and they twinkled as he chuckled at her.

 

‘Yeah, I was pretty ripe when I got back. It was high time for a bath.’

 

She threw her chin up and sniffed, but her irritation at being startled had faded away, so she smirked at him.

 

‘Hmmm. I think clean is a good look on you.’

 

Farkas grinned then, and his eyes swept over her in a look that could _only_ be described as appreciative.

 

‘Not _nearly_ as good as it looks on _you_.’

 

There it was again—a _thump_ in the pit of her stomach, sending it fluttering.

 

_So he was flirting now._

 

Feeling unsettled, Merrin cleared her throat, and tilted her head as she took a step back, shoving the thought stubbornly aside. Even if he _was,_ she hadn’t come to Jorrvaskr to be flirted with.

 

‘You said you’ve been looking for me?’

 

Again, the moment passed, and Farkas nodded at her, looking enthusiastic.

 

‘Yeah, that’s right. I haven’t been up for very long, travelling through the night and all. Now I’m starved.’

 

‘Sleeping through the day _can_ do that, you know,’ she pointed out wryly.

 

He laughed. ‘Don’t I know it. But I was wondering if you’d eaten dinner yet.’

 

Her stomach chose _that_ moment to growl loudly enough for both of them to hear, and Farkas broke out laughing again. Merrin knew they were both thinking of earlier that morning, and it pulled a snort from her before she smiled begrudgingly.

 

‘Guess that answers my question, huh?’

 

‘I guess it does.’

 

‘So _now_ I’m wondering if you’d be interested in coming with me down to the Mare. We can grab some dinner.’

 

A second ago he’d been _flirting_ with her, and now, in that light....Merrin put a hand on her hip, and hedged, resolutely ignoring the clenching in her gut.

 

‘It’s been a pretty long day—I’m not sure I’d make the best company right now.’

 

‘ _Pfft.’_ He waved her words away with one large hand, clearly paying them no mind, and shook his head.

 

‘Please. You’ll be having even _longer_ days, before you know it. And I’m sure you’re just fine company anyway. Besides – now that you’re officially one of us, that makes us shield-siblings. We’re gonna have to start getting to know each other sooner or later.’

 

It was the same thing that Ria had said to her earlier that day. He was smiling at her in an easy sort of way, and then he waggled his eyebrows at her and his tone became teasing.

 

‘And I _know_ you’re hungry.’

 

She couldn’t help it—she laughed. He was just so goofy, standing there, and so earnest; there was nothing underlying his offer that she could see. All at once, her hesitation melted, and she smiled at him as she shook her head.

 

‘Fine. You’ve convinced me, _shield-sibling_. Let’s go grab some dinner.’

 

 

The heat of the day had broken hours ago, and the lamp-lit streets were cool and breezy as the two of them made their way to the Plains District.

 

Merrin had left her hair down to finish drying, and now it cascaded in loose waves down her back and chest, getting played with by the wind. Things were pretty much peaceful in this part of the city; business was done for the day, and families were either eating dinner at home or taking evening strolls together, enjoying the indigo sky with the first of its glimmering stars peeking out.

 

The silence between them was easy and companionable, but she decided to break it with news.

 

‘So. I finished that job that you asked me to do.’

 

‘That a fact? Already?’ He looked pleased, and a little surprised. ‘How’d it go?’

 

‘You were right.’ She shrugged. ‘He was all bark, and no bite. He straightened out when I threatened to kick his ass.’

 

Farkas grinned. ‘You didn’t even have to hit him once?’

 

They were climbing the steps to the Bannered Mare then, and Merrin placed a hand on one of the wooden doors before she turned around with one brow arched.

 

‘I can be very intimidating, when I want to be.’

 

His eyes twinkled at her in the light spilling from the tavern’s front windows. ‘That’s what I hired you for.’

 

It was Loredas, and the tavern was appropriately rowdy, filled with farmers and stable hands and all sorts of other thirsty people, talking and laughing and singing along with the bard’s spirited rendition of ‘ _Mead, Mead, Mead’_. They managed to snag a table along the back wall, and a minute later the Redguard serving girl came hurrying up to them, looking harried.

 

Farkas was obviously familiar with the woman, and he smiled warmly at her.

 

‘Saadia! Business as usual around here, eh?’

 

‘More than enough business for me,’ she replied, sounding rueful. ‘What’ll it be tonight, Farkas?’

 

‘I don’t want to be any trouble. Just bring me a plate of whatever’s easiest.’

 

The Redguard smiled gratefully at him. ‘Beef hash it is. You’re an angel, Farkas. As usual.’ Her dark, thickly lashed eyes flicked over to rest on Merrin. ‘And for yourself?’

 

‘I’ve had enough red meat and potato for the day. Would some grilled salmon and leeks be too much trouble?’

 

The serving girl chuckled. ‘Not _too_ much. Coming right up.’

 

She turned to go, and Farkas put a hand on her arm. ‘Oh, and Saadia, two meads – one for me, and one for my Sister here.’

 

She nodded briskly and disappeared, headed in the direction of a blonde man calling to her from the fire pit.

 

Farkas leaned forward in his seat, putting one big elbow on the table top, and watched her go for a second before he looked back at Merrin.

 

‘That was Saadia,’ he explained. ‘Nice girl.’

 

‘She _is_ nice,’ Merrin agreed. ‘I’ve stayed here a few nights, and never knew what her name was.’ She eyed him carefully. ‘She’s pretty.’

 

He nodded easily in agreement. ‘Yeah, she is.’

 

She stared at Farkas a little more pointedly. She didn’t really know him – what kind of man he was. He’d pretty obviously flirted with her back in the mead hall, not ten minutes ago. Was he the type to flirt with any woman in front of him? She planned to find out.

 

‘Have you two ever gotten better acquainted?’ She asked bluntly. ‘Emphasis on the word _better_.’

 

She wasn’t expecting his reaction; he _blushed_.

 

‘Uh....no. No, we haven’t.’

 

She tried to keep her expression even, but the tiniest smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. ‘Mind if I ask why not?’

 

He stared at her for a long second, and it seemed to occur to him that she was amused; he huffed. ‘For now, let’s just leave it at no.’

 

‘But Farkas, you’re the one who _said_ it – now that we’re Shield-Siblings, we’ll have to get to know each other.’

 

Before he could make any reply, Saadia returned then with two frothy tankards, plunking them down on the table. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked glad for the distraction.

 

Merrin reached for her coin purse to dig out some septims, but Farkas saw what she was doing and shook his head.

 

‘Nuh uh, no way. This is your first night. First round’s on me.’ He swiftly pulled out a handful of septims from his own purse and dropped them into Saadia’s hand.

 

‘Don’t take this woman’s money, Saadia. She’s stubborn.’ He eyed Merrin pointedly. ‘Doesn’t know when to give up. But tonight’s my treat. So.’

 

Saadia laughed, smiling at both of them before she patted Farkas on the top of his head. ‘If you say so, big man. Enjoy the drinks.’ In another second, she was gone again.

 

He hadn’t just been talking about the mead; suddenly, Merrin felt foolish for pressing him, and irritated with herself. What business was it of hers, whether or not they’d been together? For a long second, they sat in silence, neither meeting the other’s eye. Then Merrin sighed.

 

‘I’m, uh...I’m sorry if I overstepped, Farkas. You’re right.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘We don’t know each other. I shouldn’t tease like that.’

 

‘No, no, that’s not it.’ Farkas’ brow furrowed, and once again, he was looking perfectly genuine. ‘I don’t mind teasing. I just don’t want people having the wrong idea. Saadia and me, we’re just friends. That’s all.’

 

Merrin nodded; she believed him. ‘I’m sorry I pried.’

 

‘It’s okay, Merrin.’ He smiled softly then, and he sounded almost shy. ‘I _do_ want us to get to know each other.’

 

After a second, she smiled uncertainly back at him, feeling relieved that she hadn’t really upset him. ‘Want to start over again?’

 

‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘Sounds good. There’re _way_ more important things to talk about.’

 

‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

 

‘Like you getting paid for a job well done.’ He untied a secondary pouch from his belt, and set it on the table in front of her with a jangling plop. ‘One hundred gold, all for you.’

 

She hummed in satisfaction before she grabbed the pouch in one hand, savoring the weight in her palm. The embarrassment she’d felt a minute before faded away.

 

‘Threatening jerks sure does pay well.’

 

‘It does when you’re a Companion, at least.’

 

She set down the coin pouch, picked up her tankard, and took a testing swallow of mead. It was good brew, so she took another.

 

‘It would seem that way. Thanks for the gold. What else do you want to talk about?’

 

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, a bit too innocently. Then he hit her with a sly grin. ‘How about you breaking my brother’s wrist?’

 

She choked on her next swallow of mead, and came up spluttering, looking accusatory.

 

‘How on _Nirn_ do you know about that? You weren’t even here!’

 

His grin widened. ‘I have my ways.’

 

‘What ways?’ She grumbled. ‘Mind reading? You’ve been asleep most of the day!’

 

He was clearly enjoying this turn of events, and shrugged benignly as he tried his best to look innocent with eyes that were dancing. ‘Guess I’ve been awake just long enough.’

 

‘Who _told_ you? Definitely not Vilkas.’ She scowled. She may not have really known the man, but she’d bet her _life_ that he was too prideful to go walking around freely admitting he’d lost _anything_.

 

‘No, it wasn’t Vilkas,’ he conceded. At the look on her face, he chuckled and held up his hands.

 

‘Alright, alright. Aela told me. We bumped into each other after I woke up, and she told me about your testing. Everyone was really impressed, especially her. Vilkas is no slouch.’

 

She brushed the praise aside, and her scowl deepened. She took another gulp of mead, and then banged the tankard down a little too hard. ‘I don’t want to talk about your brother.’

 

When she looked back at Farkas, he seemed more solemn than before. When he answered, his voice sounded a little bit sad.

 

‘Can I ask why not?’

 

She eyed him hard. ‘Can you keep it to _yourself_? Or are you the type of twins who share everything?’ She grumbled.

 

‘I can keep it to myself.’ Now he was looking sort of hurt, and she cursed herself inwardly, and sighed.

 

‘I’m sorry, Farkas. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you. I’m just... _really_ frustrated.’ She heaved another sigh.

 

‘Your brother...doesn’t like me. Normally, I wouldn’t care about that sort of thing, but he doesn’t just _not_ like me—he seems to have some sort of _problem_ with me. He took one look at me and decided point blank that I wasn’t good enough to be a Companion. He underestimated me, without knowing me. And he paid for it.’ She hissed out a breath. ‘The way he acted, he’s lucky I didn’t break something more important.’

 

Farkas had been listening to her as she’d talked, staring at her with serious eyes, and now he nodded and spoke.

 

‘Vilkas...I meant it earlier, when I said he was a good guy. He really is. But he’s...’ his brow furrowed, and he stared at the ceiling, trying to recall something. ‘How did Kodlak put it?...An acquired taste.’

 

She huffed, and shook her head. ‘I’m an adult, Farkas. I wouldn’t have had any problem with him at _all,_ if he hadn’t had such a problem with _me_ , without even knowing me!’

 

‘That’s what I’m trying to get at,’ Farkas insisted. ‘He _doesn’t_ have a problem with you. Not really. He just always has his guard up. He’s slow to trust people – thinks that they’re more bad than good.’

 

Merrin took in his words with some difficulty, and then sighed. ‘That may be so,’ she said slowly. ‘But why does he have to be so gods-damned defensive?’

 

‘The Companions are his family,’ he replied simply. ‘Vilkas may be a bit of a hardass, but he’s loyal. Protective. _Any_ time someone new comes along, he’s on them like a hawk, making damn sure they’re alright before he trusts them with the rest of us. That’s just the way he is.’

 

Her eyes flashed. ‘There’s no way in hell I’m putting up with him following me around, checking up on me.’

 

Farkas surprised her by chuckling. ‘You probably don’t need to worry about that. I love my brother, but he _is_ prideful, _and_ arrogant. Stubborn. Now that you showed him up like that, he’s more than likely to keep his distance for awhile.’

 

‘ _Good_.’ The word came out much fiercer than she’d meant it to. But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything else, so she took another awkward gulp of mead.

 

Farkas was looking a bit sad again. ‘We’ll see. With a bit of time, maybe you’ll change your mind about him. He’s worth getting to know.’

 

Like she had that morning, Merrin felt her prickly irritation softening; in its place seeped a bit of logic. One day _wasn’t_ enough time to really judge someone...and who would know Vilkas better than his twin? Farkas seemed to be confident that the two of them could get along, in time.

 

‘....Maybe we’ll see,’ she muttered begrudgingly.

 

Her words were rewarded by a dazzling smile from Farkas, and he reached across the table and nudged her teasingly.

 

‘That’s the spirit. Give us time, Merrin, and we’ll become _your_ family, too. Just think about it.’ Then he grabbed his own tankard and took a long drink, so that he missed her expression at the words he’d said, that made her insides tremble with unexpected emotion. A second later Saadia came back into view, carrying two plates at chest level, and _that_ Farkas noticed.

 

‘I’ll drop it now, about Vilkas. Let’s enjoy this food!’

 

 

And they did; for the rest of the time that they spent in the tavern, conversation flowed easily between them, and they had a good time. Surprisingly, Farkas didn’t ask any questions that she didn’t want to answer – she didn’t have to head him off or supply a half-truth once. He asked instead about how her day had gone, and about working with Eorlund; she found out fast that he was an excellent listener.

 

He laughed when she described the look on Elrindir’s face when she’d confronted him, and again when she complained about Eorlund not having a single apron to work in.

 

And then when she’d finished her stories, he’d asked her how she was liking being a Companion so far.

 

‘It’s hard to tell how I feel,’ she’d admitted honestly. ‘So far, I’m hopeful, but it’s so much to take in. A week ago, I was...’ She’d shook her head and bitten her tongue, and then changed the subject with a question. ‘What about you? How do _you_ like being a Companion?’

 

Farkas had grinned, and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I wouldn’t trade it for the world.’

 

He’d looked proud when he’d said it, and it had caused her to remember something else she’d been wondering.

 

‘How long have the two of you been Companions?’

 

He’d laughed at that. ‘Officially? Since we came of age. But the two of us have been running around Jorrvaskr since we were just a couple of knee-high whelps.’

 

He’d gone on to explain to her that their father had been a Companion, himself, and that as far as Vignar Gray-Mane knew, they were the youngest people to ever be made Companions.

 

He hadn’t said anything else about his father, and she hadn’t dared to ask; he wasn’t living in Jorrvaskr, and that didn’t bode well, so she’d left it alone.

 

In the end, he’d insisted on paying for everything – dinner and several rounds of drinks – and wouldn’t accept a single coin that she tried to shove at him. She’d spluttered, insisting that it was all too much, dismayed at the unexpected wave of generosity that she’d found in Jorrvaskr.

 

‘When will _I_ ever get to actually pay for something?!!’

 

But Farkas had just laughed at her, and clapped her on the back.

 

‘Oh, don’t worry. Keep sayin’ things like that, and you’ll have Torvar up your ass in no time, asking you to spot him ‘just one more’ drink.’

 

The bard had been performing _‘Ragnar The Red’_ when they finally left the Bannered Mare, and Farkas had loudly hummed the tune as they made their way back to Jorrvaskr through mostly empty streets. She hadn’t been so relaxed or in such a good mood since before she’d taken her last job back in Morrowind, and she laughed easily when he finished his rendition at the front doors of the mead hall and tipped into an exaggerated bow.

 

Now they were standing there in the shadow of the threshold, staring at one another.

 

‘Thank you, Farkas.’ The words tumbled out of her.

 

‘For what?’ His smiling face was flushed slightly ruddy from drink, and his eyes were shining even in the shadows, so that they drew in her gaze. Silvery, blue...captivating.

 

‘For tonight. For dinner. I had a lot of fun with you,’ she owned. The mead was swimming through her pleasantly, and it made it easier to be honest. ‘I was nervous to join the Companions, and you’ve made me feel...welcome.’

 

‘You _are_ ,’ he replied, and sounded eager when he said it. ‘I had a great time tonight, too.’ This last part seemed to be said more to himself, and he shook his head as he smiled. Then he met her gaze again.

 

‘Any time you need _anything_ around here, Merrin, you feel free to let me know.’

 

This time she couldn’t ignore the hard thumping of her heart, and she just nodded mutely, at a loss for any good reply. Almost as if he could hear the thumping, Farkas’ smile grew even wider. She thought for a second that he might’ve been blushing, but it was impossible for her to tell in the shadowy doorway, and with the flush from the mead already tinting his face. Then he straightened up, and suddenly seemed a bit more business-like.

 

‘Anyway, come on. We’d better get inside. _I’m_ not tired, but I bet _you_ are. Like you said, you’ve had a long day.’

 

It was true; she _was_ tired again. Feeling an odd prick of disappointment, she nodded at him and placed her hand on one of the oaken doors.

 

‘Alright. After you.’

 

The mead hall had been mostly empty all day, but now it was a different story; Tilma was curled up in one of the armchairs in the corners, sipping from a steaming earthenware mug and intently reading from a leather-bound book. Ria, Athis and Torvar were sitting around the far edge of the great table – Ria and Torvar seemingly locked in some sort of passionate debate, and Athis watching them with amusement while quietly eating a bowl of soup. He was the first to notice them come in, but when he nudged Ria’s shoulder and she looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of them, and she waved them over.

 

‘There you are! Both of you, get over here, I need your help to convince Torvar that he’s wrong – he thinks that it’s more impressive to kill a slaughterfish than a cliffracer!’

 

‘It’s _her_ who’s wrong,’ Torvar shot back. ‘When’s the last time you saw a _cliffracer_ make off with someone’s balls? Hmm? That’s what I thought! Slaughterfish are tough little bastards.’

 

Merrin laughed, but shook her head. ‘I’m not getting involved in this. My bed is calling my name. Good luck in the battle for dominance, though.’

 

As she waved goodnight and headed for the stairs, Farkas pulled up the chair beside Athis and sat down with the other three, and the argument started back up.

 

‘Farkas, explain to this numbskull how it is, in fact, _more_ difficult to shoot a fast-moving target out of the air. Back me up.’

 

‘Nah, man. You’ve gotta think about your balls!’

 

‘I don’t know, Ria,’ Farkas drawled. ‘A man _does_ need to protect his assets.’

 

‘I’ll be coming for _all_ of your assets if you lot don’t pipe the hell down!’

 

This last was from Tilma, who hadn’t even bothered to look up from her book. ‘I’ve had to re-read this page twice ‘cause of your racket. Slaughterfish will be the _least_ of your worries if I need to read it again!’

 

 

Compared to the noise of the mead hall, the sleeping quarters were calm and quiet. Again, Merrin didn’t encounter anybody else before slipping into the recruit’s room; Vilkas, Aela, and Skjor were nowhere to be seen – maybe in their own rooms. She had no idea where Njada might’ve been, but she was glad that it wasn’t the two of them alone in the room.

 

She was in the process of turning down her sheets for the night when there was a knock on the door. She jumped, her first thoughts being that she _was_ going to be stuck alone with Njada, afterall. But she realized in the same moment that that didn’t make any sense; Njada wouldn’t have knocked.

 

So she was apprehensive when she opened the door, not knowing who to expect. The person actually standing there was the one she’d expected least of all.

 

‘Pardon me. I’m not disturbing you, am I, Merrin?’

 

She gasped in surprise. ‘Harbinger!’

 

Kodlak White-Mane was standing in front of her, with candlelight playing over his long face and beard. The armor of the Circle had been replaced for the night with a loose pair of cotton pants and a woolen tunic, but he seemed no less commanding without it. He was looking her over seriously, with his stormy grey eyes looking thoughtful, and now a hint of a smile played around his lips.

 

‘You can just call me Kodlak, if you’d like.’ He said it kindly, and a little ruefully.

 

She could hardly believe he was there.

 

‘To what do I owe the visit, Harb—Kodlak?’ She hadn’t known when she’d next see the Harbinger, due to their difference in rank; she’d never imagined that _he_ would come to _her_. Remembering her manners through her shock, she took a hasty step back from the door and opened it wide. ‘Could I invite you in?’

 

‘Actually, I was wondering if you would mind joining me in my study, for a conversation.’ Now, he smiled at her for real. ‘We’ve not had a chance to speak properly, yet.’

 

‘But, I’m...just a new recruit,’ Merrin fumbled. ‘Surely, you have more important things to do?’

 

He chuckled at that, and clasped his hands behind his back before he answered, again sounding kind.

 

‘My dear girl, you have the wrong idea about me. I am the Harbinger of the Companions; it’s my role and my pleasure to keep company with any who would take the time. What good is a Harbinger who doesn’t interact with his fellows – especially the new ones?’ His grey eyes were shining now. ‘I am not a statue, made to look stern and sit in my quarters. How dull and stiff my life would be, if I didn’t call on those around me!’

 

Merrin hesitated, but she could see plainly that he was genuine; after a second, she relented.

 

‘I...I see. I hadn’t really thought about it that way. In that case, if you would have me...’ she straightened up. ‘I would love the chance to speak with you.’ Again, his presence elicited a strong desire for his approval, and she tried to stop stammering and tamp it down. _Damn these nerves!!_

 

He nodded his shaggy head, seeming pleased. ‘Excellent. Follow me then, if you would.’

 

She started following a step behind him down the hallway, but almost immediately he turned and asked her to walk along beside him. She did so, nervously, and had to resist the urge to wring her hands together as they walked; she had no idea what to expect from this conversation.

 

‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ When they entered into his study, Kodlak gestured with a hand to the same chair that Vilkas had occupied when she’d entered Jorrvaskr the day before; she sank into it slowly, feeling somewhat surreal. He offered her a goblet of red wine, which she politely turned down, and then poured one for himself, claiming that ‘a glass or two in the evenings helped to calm the thoughts of the day.’

 

Kodlak seemed to sense her nerves, and he smiled at her again before he reached out and patted her hand where it gripped the arm of her seat – a very fatherly gesture.

 

‘And please, _do_ try to relax, Merrin. This is a social visit, not an interrogation.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’ She bit out a sigh. ‘Pardon my nervousness, please. I just wasn’t expecting to be called on by you.’ She offered him a small smile, full of chagrin, and then managed to chuckle at herself. ‘It’s been a very full two days.’

 

‘There’s nothing to pardon.’ He returned her smile knowingly. ‘We were all new once. That’s mostly what I wanted to discuss with you—how are you settling in?’

 

‘Truthfully?’ She stared at him for a long second, and then relented again. ‘Gradually. Being here has been...quite the transition. Some aspects feel more natural than others. But it’s been such a short period of time, with so much crammed into it, that it barely feels real when I stop moving.’

 

He nodded at her, considering, before he spoke. ‘I appreciate your being candid. And I’m not surprised that you’re feeling somewhat overwhelmed. The Companions can be an...overwhelming bunch,’ he said, sounding fond. ‘And it takes time to find one’s place among them.’ He picked up his goblet and slowly swirled the contents, before lifting it to his nose, sniffing, and taking a sip. Then he eyed her over the rim, and smiled again.

 

‘But I have every confidence that you _will_ find your place.’

 

His words flustered her, but she nodded anyway. ‘Thank you...Kodlak.’

 

‘It’s as much an observation as faith.’ The older man took another sip of his wine, and then returned it to the table between them. He rested against the back of his chair, loosely crossing his legs at the ankle, and as he had when she’d first met him, he seemed to radiate elegance and poise. ‘I was sorry to miss your testing, but heard about it afterwards. If your performance there was any indication, then you certainly have the skills you need to make your mark.’

 

She stared at him, confused now. _Did he mean...?_

 

As if he could hear her confused thoughts, the Harbinger nodded. ‘It was Vilkas who informed me. After your testing, he came back to me to report on how you’d fared. He spoke highly of your skill.’

 

The words gave her a serious shock, that she couldn’t hide; her brain didn’t want to absorb what Kodlak had said, and she nearly told him as much. Instead, she was quiet for several seconds, before she finally answered in a dubious voice.

 

‘Really?’

 

There it was again; the twinkling in the Harbinger’s stormy grey eyes that could only be described as mischievous. He chuckled, and laced his hands together over his stomach.

 

‘I wouldn’t say it otherwise. You seem surprised to hear this, my girl.’

 

‘I...wasn’t sure _what_ Vilkas thought, when he tested me,’ Merrin hedged. The last thing she wanted to do just then was tell the Harbinger that a member of his Circle seemed to dislike her.

 

Kodlak didn’t seem at all surprised. ‘That is Vilkas’ way,’ he nodded. ‘He’s a guarded man, quiet and intellectual. His innermost thoughts are often his alone. But he is also honest and fair, and I trust his judgments to be apt when I can’t make my own.’

 

Merrin sat there in silence, staring at the tabletop, unsure of what to say. Kodlak spoke of Vilkas with obvious fondness, and he clearly trusted him. And his words were a close match to what Farkas had said earlier, back in the Bannered Mare; that Vilkas may have been stand-offish, but was really a decent man. She grimaced.

 

‘I will do my best to prove myself to you, as my time with the Companions continues, Kodlak. Thank you for your faith in me.’

 

He laughed at her words, which she didn’t expect, and when she looked back up at him, he was actually grinning at her.

 

‘You young ones are all the same,’ he mused warmly. ‘Deferring where you oughtn’t defer. But I’m sure you’ll understand in time. It isn’t _me_ that you should strive to prove yourself to – it’s _yourselves_. A Harbinger is only meant to provide guidance. I am not who you answer to.’

 

She faltered – was that not precisely what she’d been doing for the past four years? Proving herself, _to_ herself? Wasn’t that the force that drove her out of the Bannered Mare and through the front doors of Jorrvaskr? Or was this something else entirely? What was she trying to prove – and to whom? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure.

 

Her wondering was interrupted by the mellow timber of Kodlak’s voice.

 

‘There is another question I would ask you, girl.’

 

‘You can ask whatever you’d like.’

 

He was looking pensive again, eyeing her over the rim of his wine goblet. ‘What is it that made you seek us out? Why have you sought to become a Companion?’

 

He hadn’t asked her when she’d approached him initially, but she wasn’t really surprised that he was asking now; Kodlak was obviously a philosophical man. She decided to answer him honestly.

 

‘I’ve _always_ wanted to be one. For almost as long as I can remember. I spent years of my life occupied with different things...but now my path has led me here, and I’m glad of it. Being a Companion would be fulfilling a dream, for me.’

 

This answer seemed to satisfy Kodlak; he nodded, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

 

‘And what path was it that led you here? What of your life _before_ you came to our hall?’

 

Instantly, she tensed up. She hadn’t told anyone about the circumstances that had led her here—Ria and Aela had both asked, and she’d shot them both down. Could she safely do the same with the Harbinger?

 

‘I would...rather not discuss that, Harbinger. If you don’t mind,’ Merrin said, slowly and firmly.

 

Again, he didn’t seem surprised, but he did look a bit more serious as he went back to swirling his wine.

 

‘Your business is your own – I have no intention of prying. But may I ask _why_ you don’t wish to discuss it?’

 

She sighed. ‘Because, it’s of a...personal and unsavory nature. That’s why.’

 

Several seconds passed in silence. Then Kodlak put his goblet down. He was eyeing her very carefully now; Merrin didn’t know what to expect, and so she eyed him back just as intently.

 

‘I respect your wishes. But there _is_ one thing I’d like to know, now that you’re staying with us.’

 

She remained silent and watchful.

 

‘Are you here because you’re in some kind of trouble? Are you being...pursued, or something of that ilk?’ Now he seemed a bit chagrined, but he pressed on anyway. ‘Have you run afoul of the Hold’s authorities?’

 

_Yes. I don’t know. And they seem to think so._ The answers resounded in her head, but she didn’t give any of them voice. Instead, she chose her reply very carefully.

 

‘I won’t deny that I’ve seen trouble in my recent past...and it _did_ contribute to my decision to come here. But I foresee no way that it could impact my time spent among the Companions – and I _haven’t_ committed any crime, in this Hold or any other.’ On _that_ point, she was making absolutely sure to set the record straight, Empire be damned. She sat tall and straight-backed in the chair, and couldn’t keep herself from stubbornly setting her jaw.

 

At length, Kodlak sighed, and his gaze dropped to the tabletop. ‘A shrouded answer. But it reassures me, for now.’

 

For a moment, there was silence in the study. Then his steely eyes lifted to meet hers, and they were piercing in their intensity as he spoke again – silvery and bright, pinning her gaze.

 

‘And know this, girl. Your time here has been brief so far, but you’ve proven yourself to be honorable and skilled. You’ve made the choice to become one of us, and Jorrvaskr’s arms are open to you. Whatever the trouble you don’t wish to speak of, _know_ that your brothers and sisters in arms will stand beside you and fight as one, should it ever darken _this_ threshold. In _this_ family, no one ever stands alone.’

 

_Family_. She hadn’t been expecting anything like the Harbinger’s words, and they hit her hard. In a flash, she thought of the dream she’d had in the Bannered Mare, of the Companions fighting by her side. She thought of Farkas, sharing his breakfast and making her laugh, of Ria showing her the city and holding her hand and letting her borrow her clothes. Of Torvar saying that they’d be friends, in no time at all.

 

It had been a long time since she’d felt really welcomed, and to feel it now overwhelmed her. She could barely swallow over the lump of emotion in her throat, and when she answered Kodlak, it was in a whisper.

 

‘....Thank you, Kodlak. You’re all...too generous.’

 

‘We’ve all worked together to build something wonderful,’ was his gentle reply. ‘But I won’t take up anymore of your time, for tonight – I can see I’ve given you much to think about.’ He smiled at her.

 

‘Thank you, for indulging an old man’s love of conversation.’

 

‘It was my pleasure,’ she answered in a rush. ‘Thank you for asking me here.’

 

Kodlak pushed away from the table, and she followed suit. Then they rose in unison, and he walked her to the door of his study. ‘Can I count on the pleasure of speaking with you again?’ he asked.

 

She blinked up at him, surprised. ‘Of course. I would like that very much.’

 

His smile widened, and his eyes twinkled as he chuckled. ‘Alright then. Until next time...sleep well, girl.’

 

She wasn’t so sure that she would; as she left Kodlak’s study and walked back down the quiet hall, her muscles were aching and her mind was buzzing.

 

But she would do her best.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Hello, and welcome back for the tenth chapter of A Warrior Rises! Are you enjoying the story so far? Let me know! I post here as well as on FFNET under the username gwap-queen, AND I'm on twitter! Come to twitter @gwap_queen00 to message me, or just enjoy my jokes, memes, and cat pics! I'd really love to hear from you guys!**

And so, it happened: despite the horrific ordeal she’d survived and the surrealism of her life changing course so abruptly, Merrin did her best to get comfortable in Jorrvaskr – and it wasn’t long before her efforts bore fruit. As the days ticked by one after the other and the back half of Last Seed slowly dawned into Hearthfire, the beginnings of a pattern started to form – a rhythm to how she spent her time.

 

Most mornings she rose before the sun, and it wasn’t long before she could creep through the dark of the newblood’s room without any problems. She loved the peace and quiet of the pre-dawn, but waking up so early ended up having another benefit; Tilma had noticed her up and about, and before too many days had passed, the old woman had asked Merrin if she would mind helping out in the kitchen, to make breakfasts - ‘since you’re up anyway, and all.’ She had agreed, and every early morning since had been spent getting to know the tiny firecracker as they kneaded dough and fried up eggs.

 

The hearty breakfasts were a blessing, because Merrin’s days were absolutely full to bursting. Ria, Torvar and Athis had made good on their offers to train with her, and most days she’d spend time in the yard, going blade to blade with one of them while the other two egged on whoever was fighting. Ria was even brave enough to spar her hand to hand – and the willowy woman was stronger than she looked! Between the three of them, she’d yet to use a practice dummy once.

 

As for Njada, the pale-haired woman seemed to be avoiding her – an arrangement that was suiting the both of them just fine.

 

Several hours of every day were devoted to meeting with Eorlund at the Skyforge, and working on her armor; work that was tiring in more ways than one. As she worked with the smith, her suspicions were confirmed. She found out that he was a headstrong perfectionist, who always pushed her to give her best – and was quick to call her out if she gave less. They bickered sometimes, but there was an odd kind of joy in it that she hadn’t expected, and she found herself liking the old smith more and more with every passing day. And staying on her toes was well worth the effort – the armor was shaping up nicely, and each day she left the forge sweating but satisfied.

 

On one of the earlier days, she’d gone straight from the forge to the baths, and then she’d gone shopping. She’d arrived from Riverwood with almost nothing, and the market place had become much more familiar once she’d given it a thorough once-over. She couldn’t mix potions – something Ria had _tsked_ at when she’d found out – so she had to rely on Arcadia to brew her whatever she needed. When she eventually went to Belethor’s shop, the list was even longer; she’d dropped a _pile_ of gold on all sorts of things she’d needed, like several changes of clothing, a better rucksack, a cookpot for the field, and a brand new bedroll.

 

The gold had made her a welcome sight as far as Belethor was concerned, but the feeling was far from mutual; the guard that was posted in the market had warned her that Belethor was a ‘sleazy’ man, and Merrin found out for herself that it was true. When she’d turned to leave the shop with all her freshly wrapped parcels, he’d made some leering comment after her about being willing to buy her relatives.

 

Needless to say, she’d yet to go back there.

 

Aela had checked in on her every couple of days, and when she’d seen that Merrin was better prepared, she’d started sending her out on jobs.

 

They were _simple_ jobs, of course; her armor was still a raggedy, sad affair, and it wouldn’t be safe for her to stray far from Whiterun in it. But they were _still_ jobs, and they still paid septims; several times now, she’d left the city with Torvar or Ria or Athis in tow, and they’d ventured out to the nearby farms to clear out pests – skeevers that were trying to make a warren in someone’s cellar, or a pack of wolves that were picking off sheep, getting fat on summer meat.

 

They’d usually come trailing back into Whiterun as the sun was starting to set, but Merrin’s days were far from over; between cooking, training, smithing, and working, there were always chores to be done, too. She had to grease her brand new boots, clean her armor, and maintain her bow. Her waterskin had to be cleaned out each day, and when it came to laundry in Jorrvaskr, it was every man and woman for themselves.

 

It was the busiest she’d been in a _long_ time, and there wasn’t much room for socializing, but somehow, she still managed. One night after about a week, she’d been able to take Adrienne up on her offer, and she’d had a lovely dinner with the smith and her husband in their home. The both of them were entertaining story-tellers, and as it turned out, Ulfberth was quite the cook – she’d wandered home late, more than a _little_ impaired, and she now considered the two of them friends.

 

Ria had become a friend, too; her suspicions about the girl were proving correct. Between training, working jobs, and Ria just offering to lend a hand with anything she needed, she spent more time with the Imperial than any other newblood. In that time, she was learning things. She’d discovered that Ria was just a year younger than her, at nine and twenty, and that they had a lot in common – aside from joining the Companions for the same reason. Both of them favored the autumn weather to the heat of the summer. Both of them loved spooky ghost stories. And both of them had a serious sweet tooth; it turned out that it had been _Ria’s_ boiled creme treat she’d stolen on her very first day, and when Ria had found out that it had been _Merrin_ who’d taken it, she’d burst out laughing.

 

But nobody took up as much of her _spare_ time as Farkas. Like Ria, it seemed he’d decided right away that he liked her—and Merrin was glad, because the feeling was mutual. In fact, in the couple of weeks that she’d been at Jorrvaskr, the two of them were on their way to becoming fast friends – something she _hadn’t_ expected.

 

Farkas didn’t seem to have any of his brother’s reservations, and he took it upon himself to seek her out whenever he had the time. He was a member of the Circle, and so he had more responsibilities than her, but a day rarely passed where she didn’t see him. Merrin liked these visits; they would sit against the back wall of the training yard, or walk through the Wind District, and talk about whatever came to mind. He was quick to smile, to joke around, and she liked the way his eyes sparkled when he made her laugh. Some nights, they would go down to the Bannered Mare together, often with other newbloods in tow, and have dinner and drinks by the fire.

 

Three times now he’d challenged her to a game of cards, and three times now she’d won by a landslide. But Farkas never seemed to mind; as she got to know him better, she was less and less surprised. She was learning fast that Farkas’ intimidating size was fairly at odds with his genial personality.

 

The only other person Merrin really had any time for was their Harbinger; in the last couple of weeks, she’d managed a few more visits to his study, to drink dry red wine and talk about their days, and she had quickly grown fond of the older man. With his braided beard and dreamy eyes and his love of conversation, he’d reminded her of her own father. And if appearances counted for anything, he seemed to greatly enjoy _her_ company, too. When the candles on his desk were burning low and the sleeping quarters had fallen silent, she’d bid him a huge, yawning goodnight, and he’d wave her off with a wide smile and twinkling eyes.

 

There was something ailing Kodlak, and she could tell it caused him no small discomfort; sometimes they’d be in the midst of conversation, and he’d suddenly grip his legs and grimace, and then down his cup of wine before straightening up and schooling his features with a sigh. But so far she hadn’t dared to ask what was wrong – if he wanted her to know, he’d tell her.

 

By the end of each day, Merrin was exhausted; she would fall into her bed in the corner the second she’d wriggled out of her breeches, and was usually fast asleep within minutes. She didn’t even have the energy to read some before bed—something she’d been doing since she could remember, even when she’d been on the road. And that was a shame, since she’d noticed early on that Jorrvaskr was _full_ of interesting-looking books.

 

Farkas had ended up being right about Vilkas; since her testing, she’d barely even seen him. He seemed to be keeping a careful distance, so that even when they _were_ in the same space, they didn’t interact. But there were two things that she’d observed.

 

The first was that Vilkas seemed to be the one who balanced the Companion’s accounts. Several times in the last two weeks, she’d seen him talking to clients and taking payments from them out on the backyard patio, and twice she’d seen him at the table, poring over a ledger of numbers, entering sums.

 

The second was that he was watching her. Every so often, she would feel eyes on her, and sometimes when she whipped around or lifted her head she would catch him staring at her from across the room, over the edge of some enormous book or the rim of his tankard. As soon as she met his gaze, he would look away, silvery blue eyes narrowing, and either go back to what he’d been doing or get up and leave.

 

But she gave Vilkas minimal thought; so long as he was leaving her alone instead of making her life difficult, then she didn’t really care that he stared. He could think what he wanted of her, so long as he kept it to himself.

 

She might have been doing her best to settle in to her new role and surroundings, but that didn’t mean that she’d forgotten the old ones; far from it. Not a day went by that she didn’t find herself thinking of Morrowind, of the people she’d gotten to be friends with. Of Dalan Dufont, and what he might’ve been saying about her. Of the potential danger she could be in. Of the dragon.

 

And there were frequent enough reminders of it all here at Jorrvaskr that even if she _was_ trying to forget, she couldn’t. In the last two weeks, she’d had to dodge every single _one_ of the Companions _and_ Eorlund when they’d asked her at some point or another what she was doing before she’d come to Whiterun. She’d ended up telling some of them that she’d been a mercenary, but that was all.

 

Some of them accepted her reticence easily, but others grumbled – Torvar especially. It didn’t really surprise her; it hadn’t taken very long for Merrin to figure out that Torvar was a terrible gossip. Pretty much _any_ secret was a secret he was interested in knowing.

 

And there had been much worse. A tenday after the attack on Helgen, ragged-looking guards had come marching through Whiterun to Dragonsreach. They’d delivered the official report of the destruction’s aftermath to the Jarl; Balgruuf had wanted to keep the situation contained, but his eaves-dropping servants had other ideas, and in the way of all important news, it had spread like wildfire through most of the city within a day.

 

The news had hit Merrin hard that evening over dinner in Jorrvaskr; according to Torvar—who had gotten the scoop _straight_ from the Jarl’s chambermaid’s sister—Helgen had been laid to waste. There wasn’t a single building that hadn’t been torched or smashed, and most of them were reduced to rubble. The corpses had taken days to retrieve, and apparently accounted for over _half the village’s_ population, and a whole slew of Legion soldiers too. They’d been identified as best as possible, but the entire process had been a nightmare – too many people, burned too badly. A partial list of known casualties would be posted at the city barracks in a day or so’s time, with copies being couried to every major Hold. As for the village itself, it was to be abandoned – the guards had assessed that there was simply too much damage to be worth a rebuild, and the Jarl had agreed when he’d heard the extent of it.

 

A day had passed, and a sheaf of parchment had been posted in the barracks; Merrin had slipped out of Jorrvaskr unnoticed, and joined a throng of people all pushing to read through the list of names.

 

They’d been unfamiliar to her, and she’d sifted through them looking for just one – Dalan Dufont.

 

She hadn’t found it.

 

Not seeing that name nailed to the wall had dropped Merrin’s stomach into her feet. She’d been waiting anxiously for news to arrive, and there still wasn’t anything definitive. Had Dalan survived the dragon’s attack? Had he escaped to Morrowind? Was he laying low somewhere in the province? Injured? Plotting revenge? Or was he a burnt-out corpse on the outskirts of Helgen, too badly charred or smashed up to be identified?

 

Dead, or alive? Dead, or alive? If he _was_ alive, what did that mean for her?? Every worry she’d had in the Bannered Mare had come fluttering back up her throat like bile.

 

She hadn’t even been with the Companions a week when the news had come to Whiterun – everything had been up in the air. But she hadn’t wanted to think about the implications then, the possibilities. So she’d thrown herself into life at Jorrvaskr instead.

 

 

It was on the sixth of Hearthfire that she and Eorlund put the finishing touches on her suit of armor. It was a Sundas, and most of the other Companions were sleeping in; Merrin hadn’t felt like training alone, so she’d decided to meet Eorlund at the forge earlier than usual.

 

He’d been pleased to see her, and had announced that if they put their backs into it, they could be finished in a few hours’ time. She could see that he was right, and so they’d gotten down to it.

 

And now, it was spread out in front of them, fully finished, laid out on the stone workbench and shining in the morning sun. Both of them were standing there looking it over, comically mirroring the same proud stance, with arms crossed over chests. After several moments, Eorlund turned to her.

 

‘So then, girl, will you be puttin’ it on? Or just starin’ at it?’

 

Merrin snorted, and rolled her eyes. ‘Someone’s impatient, I see.’ But she was grinning as she said it.

 

She _did_ put it on, then, and didn’t need any help from Eorlund – another reason why she’d made this design. As soon as she was finished, she started moving around, testing the motion, getting the feel of the suit. She’d worn each piece many times as they’d shaped them, but never all of them together like this.

 

She was thrilled with the results.

 

Her helmet was fully steel, slightly arched in shape to encourage glancing, with an open face but a long, tapered nasal. Best of all, it had a skirt of mail around its bottom, carefully riveted at every quarter inch, dripping down fine but strong, to protect the back and sides of her neck.

 

Her breastplate was a simple, streamlined affair, with hardly any etched design at all – she hadn’t wanted to take the time to do more. It was secured with ties along either side that she could fiddle with herself, and had been tempered for maximum strength and resiliency. They’d riveted on a pair of steel pauldrons as well, and now they sat over her shoulders in a sweeping shape. They had finessed the plackart by using rivets—such handy things!—to attach it to the plate, so that the fit was as flexible as it could possibly be, and she was rewarded with an essentially full range of motion in it.

 

Her faulds was made not of steel, but leather – a skirt of thick vertical strips, similar to what the Imperials wore, and laced tightly in the back with gut cord. This too had been a part of her design, and it shone through brilliantly; it offered basically all the same protection as steel to her thighs and groin, but was as quiet as a whisper, compared to the obnoxious clanking of steel lames.

 

For her legs, there were chausses made of fine, intricate mail that extended to just above the knee; it was truly fortunate that Eorlund had the mail already made and waiting for a project, because otherwise, the suit could have taken them months. Eorlund’s supreme skill and ideas had also come through on the poleyns; perhaps his best adjustment to her design, they were expertly riveted directly to the bottoms of her chausses, and she’d no longer have to tie them with cord or buckle them with a strap, and worry about them slipping and leaving her knees unprotected.

 

For footwear, she got to wear her new leather boots, and over top protecting her shins were a pair of splintmail greaves, secured with straps and buckles around the calves.

 

Last were the rerebraces and vambraces; both were also made of sturdy leather, and tied up along the back of her arms with more gut cord. The vambraces had been fitted with splintmail for extra protection (at Eorlund’s insistence) and were riveted to the upper edges of the leather demi-gaunts. As she slipped them on and secured them, she sighed in satisfaction; they were a snug, perfect fit, and each demi-gaunt came down in a diamond point over the back of her hand, to rest at the base of her middle finger.

 

Eorlund had tried several more times as they’d done their work to talk her out of them—so she was more than surprised when she turned to face him, and saw him holding out an archer’s finger guard.

 

‘Eorlund...what..?’

 

‘I made this for you a while back, when I had a spare minute.’ He huffed. ‘You were dead-set on them demis, and I figured...well, here you go.’ He shoved the guard into her open hand. ‘Try it on.’

 

Merrin looked down at the guard in her hand, and blinked in surprise. It was finely made, with deerskin as soft as butter for her two pulling fingers that would trail down the back of her hand, sewn like a cuff around a bracelet of soft braided flax that had been knotted to loosen or tighten at the pull of two strings.

 

It was a beautiful piece, and as she slipped it onto her dominant hand and fitted it under the demi-gaunt, another lump of emotion was threatening to choke her. Her eyes were actually misty as she looked back up at the older man.

 

‘You made this for _me_?’ Merrin croaked. ‘As a _surprise_?’

 

‘Well.’ Now Eorlund was looking terribly bashful; at the sight of her shining brown eyes, he’d cast his blue ones down to the ground, and a furious blush was creeping up past his beard. ‘You were gonna need one. Didn’t see the sense in makin’ you shop around – figured I could do it instead.’

 

Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and she grinned. ‘I _love_ it,’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘I’ll wear it until it falls apart. And then I’ll take it back to you to fix it, so I can wear it some more. _Thank_ you, Eorlund. It’s a beautiful gift.’

 

Eorlund blushed an even deeper shade of red, but his eyes were twinkling as he shooed away her words.

 

‘It was nothin’! I’m glad you like it. Now quit puffin’ me up, girl, and tell me what you think of the rest of it.’

 

‘You mean you don’t know just by looking at it?’ Merrin arched her brows, and shot him another grin. ‘I think you and I are a damn good team. We do excellent work together.’

 

It was true; the entire suit of armor was a work of art. Each piece met seamlessly with the next, working together without a hitch, so that she could move freely and gracefully. They hugged her exactly the way they should. And the work was beautiful—the leather expertly stitched and oiled, the genuine Skyforge steel buffed and shining in the light, looking elegant and ever so slightly blue in color. The way he’d attached the plackart to the breastplate made it look like a parting curtain.

 

She didn’t need a mirror to examine the results of their hard work; the armor she was wearing was a serious upgrade, even from what she’d left Morrowind in.

 

‘Aye. That we do.’ He’d crossed his arms tightly over his bare chest, and now he was surveying the suit with an expert eye as she moved. When she picked up a sword from the workbench and gave it a few swings to test her motion, he nodded approvingly. Then and _only_ then did he allow himself a smile.

 

‘Well, then. I’d say our work here is done, newblood. You’re outfitted well.’

 

‘Thanks to you. Skyforge steel...all my own...and partially made with my own two hands. You’ve made a fellow smith _very_ happy, Eorlund. I can’t thank you enough.’ She allowed herself a single, frivolous twirl, and hugged herself with glee before she turned back to him and grinned.

 

‘Now, let’s talk shop. How much do I owe you?’

 

For a long moment, Eorlund looked at her like she had three heads, and then he snorted and shook his own. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

 

‘You can’t be serious. This armor is expensive!’ Now it was _her_ turn to eye the smith like _he_ was crazy; she knew from experience that a suit like this cost hundreds of septims in materials alone—never mind the blacksmith’s _time_. She shook her head at him resolutely.

 

‘No way. I went in to this assuming that I’d be paying for this armor, and you aren’t changing my mind. We worked on it together, so I figured we could negotiate on labor costs, but the materials...’ she eyed him pointedly. ‘You can’t possibly expect me to just _take_ this from you.’

 

‘There you go again, with the fancy fussin’.’ He eyed her calmly, and then shrugged. ‘Way I see it, girl, you don’t got any choice. I’m not taking your gold.’

 

‘Why _not_?’ She asked, exasperated. ‘Who _pays_ you for this, then? Who makes sure you don’t lose your shirt by giving away free suits of armor?’

 

Now Eorlund’s arms were crossed again, and he eyed her steadily. ‘Kodlak pays me a stipend. Not that it’s any of _your_ business, girl. I serve the Companions of Jorrvaskr – makin’ arms and armor for the newbloods an’ repairing whatever breaks is what I _do_. I don’t expect payment on the spot. And most of em’ like it that way.’ Unexpectedly, he chuckled.

 

‘Most new’uns come in here, they jump for joy when I set them up with a free new suit – couldn’t afford to pay me, anyway. I doubt _you_ have the gold for it right now, either.’

 

Merrin pinked up, because he’d hit the nail on the head, and grumbled. ‘ _That’s_ none of _your_ business. I could set up payments, if you’d _let_ me. I just want—’

 

He put up a hand to stop her, and chuckled again. ‘That wasn’t my point. My _point_ is that my work for the Companions doesn’t get paid for by whelps. And that most of em’ like it that way. You seem to just be a special kind of stubborn, girl. Have since I met you.’

 

She stared him down, mouth open but with no reply, for several seconds. Then she deflated.

 

‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ she mumbled. ‘I want to make sure you get what you deserve for this work.’

 

Eorlund smiled then. ‘You’re a sweet one, Merrin. I’ll tell you what. You’re so worried about paying me? How about you do me a favor and _pay_ me a visit every now and again?’

 

Merrin looked at him uncertainly, and he continued.

 

‘It’s solitary work, up here at the forge. Most times, that’s how I like it, but every now an’ then, I could use some company. And you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Why don’t you make a point of droppin’ by sometimes, and we’ll call it even?’

 

She eyed him for a long moment, but then sighed when she saw he was serious. ‘If that’s really what you want, then I’d be more than happy to spend time here with you. But I feel like I’m _definitely_ coming away with the better end of this deal,’ she ended on a mutter.

 

‘There’s a girl.’ Eorlund clapped her on the shoulder, and then turned away to clear the forge. After a couple of seconds, she had an idea.

 

‘Say, Eorlund...what do you like to drink? And...what’s your favorite food?’

 

He turned back to her, looking confused. ‘Why do you ask?’

 

‘I just figured, if I’m going to come and see you from time to time, it wouldn’t hurt if I brought things with me. Some lunch now and again...some cake...some of whatever you like to drink,’ she said innocently. ‘Everybody eats.’

 

‘Even people who weren’t born yesterday.’ He was trying to look stern, but the effect was ruined by his lips quirking involuntarily upward. ‘You’re not paying me with gold, and you’re not paying me with _food_ , either.’

 

‘But, Eorlund!’ She groaned. ‘I just want to—’

 

‘Uh-uh. I’m not hearing it.’ He shook his head, and smiled for real. ‘Go on, get out of here. I’ve got other jobs lined up, and can’t focus with your jawin’. Go test out the armor.’

 

 

Most of the others had woken up by the time Eorlund sent her packing, and she _did_ end up testing the armor, by training with Ria and Athis in the yard. It held up beautifully, and both of them were still complimenting her on it and reminiscing about getting _their_ first sets of Skyforge armor when they headed into the mead hall for some lunch.

 

Things typically moved a bit slower on a Sundas at Jorrvaskr, and its inhabitants were usually less busy than on any other day of the week. As a result, they had a full house for lunch—something relatively rare—and the great table was already filling up when they came sauntering in. Kodlak was sitting in his usual place, at the left side head of the table, and the other members of the Circle were sitting clustered around him at either side. Farkas turned at the sound of the doors being opened, and when he saw who it was, his face lit up and he waved them over.

 

‘There you are, Merrin! I saved you guys some seats.’ He gestured at the three empty seats beside him, and then chuckled. ‘Well, okay, they weren’t exactly in demand. But they will be in another minute, so you should sit down. Tilma made meat pie.’

 

At first, Merrin hesitated to sit; Vilkas was seated directly across from him, and even though he was in conversation with Vignar Gray-Mane for now, she didn’t want to sit so close to him. But she hadn’t had any trouble with him in the past two weeks, and Farkas was sitting there, looking at her hopefully.

 

In the end, she couldn’t disappoint him, so she flopped into the seat beside him, and nudged him in the ribs with a smile.

 

‘Bring on the pie – I’ve already been working hard today. What do you think of my new outfit?’

 

His eyes widened, obviously noticing her new armor for the first time, and then he whistled. ‘ _Damn_! The two of you really outdid yourselves. That looks great!’

 

‘Holds up great, too.’ Ria leaned around her to look at Farkas with a grin. ‘Now that she has armor that fits, Athis is hard pressed to land a hit on her.’

 

‘Hey!’ Athis huffed as Farkas laughed. ‘That’s not fair! You know _full_ well that I landed _three_ hits, thank you _very_ much.’

 

Ria sniffed, eyebrows playfully arched. ‘As I recall, Athis, it was only two.’

 

‘It was _three_! You just refused to call the third one based on bias. She’s new, so you go easy on her.’

 

‘If you say so, Athis. If you say so.’

 

For a few more minutes, there was easy conversation in the hall as ale was sipped and fruit or cheese were snacked on. Torvar and Njada came filing in, dusty and sweating, and sat across from one another two seats down from Merrin. Torvar noticed the armor right away, and told Merrin that it was ‘totally bitchin’. That seemed to irritate Njada, who put her helmet down on the table with a _thunk_ and glared at her tankard of ale.

 

Then Tilma came out from the kitchen, smiling and holding an enormous cast iron skillet, and most of the conversations were quickly forgotten. Tilma took her seat sitting opposite from Kodlak, the pie was passed around, people served each other or themselves, and the meal really began.

 

The pie was savory and delicious, and Merrin was actually feeling at ease. All thirteen people who lived in the hall were sitting at the table, and conversation was flowing easily again all around her. Farkas was in the middle of telling her about the latest job he’d gone on when Torvar called down to Vilkas, a bit louder than everybody else.

 

‘Ey, Vilkas, guess what?’

 

Torvar seemed excited; most of the people gathered looked over curiously, including Vilkas himself.

 

‘What is it, Torvar?’

 

‘I heard something _very_ interesting just now when me n’ Njada were passin’ back into the city,’ Torvar announced. ‘The guards at the gate were talkin’ back and forth about it. _Apparently_ , a bunch of the farmers came in early this morning, tellin’ the guards that they’d seen a _dragon_ flying over the east woods. A dragon! The guards say the farmers are terrified it’s the same dragon that did Helgen.’

 

Merrin’s stomach lurched violently at his words, and the hand that wasn’t holding her fork balled up into her lap. Feeling slightly nauseous, she stared at Torvar, who wasn’t done talking.

 

His eyes were lit with excitement, and he swung his fork like a tiny battleaxe as he grinned over at the other man, oblivious to Merrin’s stare. ‘Sounds like they might be needing _us_ soon, eh? Just think of it – a real dragon!’

 

She didn’t want to think of it, but she was, anyway; Torvar’s words had brought vivid images rushing back to her, of that day in Helgen – the chaos, the choking smoke and stench. The paralysing fear. The deafening roars of the glittering black dragon, only matched by the screams of so many burning people.

 

Her stomach was definitely twisting now, and she took a deep breath as she looked away from Torvar. Her eyes landed on Vilkas, instead.

 

He was looking more sour then curious, now, and as she stared at him, he scoffed at Torvar.

 

‘Bah.’ He grumbled as he picked up his drink and took a swallow. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Torvar. _Dragons_. Now that they’re claiming it was a dragon who burned down Helgen that’s all we’re going to hear. People will be seeing dragons everywhere.’

 

Someone to the side chuckled – maybe Skjor. Merrin couldn’t believe what she’d just heard; underneath the table, both of her hands were balled so tight her knuckles were white.

 

_He thinks the dragon was a lie?_

 

Beside her, she heard Farkas speak in his deep, rumbling voice.

 

‘Vilkas, what are you saying? You don’t believe a dragon really burned Helgen?’

 

Vilkas snorted in response, and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Of course not, Farkas. _Think_. Everyone knows the dragons are long gone. There hasn’t been one in Skyrim for over a thousand years.’

 

‘It _was_ a dragon that burned down Helgen.’

 

The words were out of Merrin’s mouth before she’d even planned to say them. Vilkas’ last words had been met with more chuckling, but that died off in the wake of what she’d said; for the first time since she’d sat at the table, Vilkas’ eyes met hers.

 

‘Is that so?’ He smirked, and she could see disdain written on his face as he looked at her and shook his head. ‘It sounds to me like you’ve been letting gossip carry you away.’

 

The branded images of what she’d seen were still fresh in her mind, and combined with his words, they caught the embers of her temper and sent them into roaring flame. Instantly, she snapped back at him.

 

‘It sounds to _me_ like you should spend more time actually _listening_ to people, and less time thinking you _know_ everything.’

 

Somebody to her right snorted a muffled laugh, but she didn’t care to see who. Vilkas’ smirk had melted, to be replaced with a scowl, and now the two of them were staring each other down with burning eyes. After a second or two, he answered her.

 

‘Oh?’ His tone was challenging, and laced with sarcasm. ‘Tell me then – were you _at_ Helgen, when it burned? Did you actually _see_ the dragon?’

 

She wanted to reach out and strike him; she settled for biting out an answer instead.

 

‘I was. And I did.’

 

The sudden pin-drop silence in the room was what made her realize what she’d done. Instantly, she regretted her words, but it was too late.

 

Vilkas obviously hadn’t been expecting that answer, and he snapped his jaw shut, looking surprised and dissatisfied. She broke away from his gaze, feeling sick, and looked instead at her plate of half-eaten food. Heat prickled up her neck as she felt the weight of many eyes on her; as the seconds stretched by in total silence, the weight became unbearable. Finally, she looked back up, and was confronted with the stares of the people around her. Some of them gaped, looking astonished. Others were looking openly suspicious – like Vignar Gray-Mane, their oldest Companion, staring at her hard with his beady blue eyes. She looked at Kodlak to her left, and saw how serious he looked – mouth pursed in a frown, grey eyes probing hers, as if seeking the truth, and looking mournful.

 

Merrin couldn’t take any more. She hadn’t wanted anyone knowing what had happened to her before she’d come to Whiterun – had gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. And now, in a moment of reckless anger, she’d announced it to everyone. She shoved away from the table and got to her feet in one motion – deafening, in the otherwise silent hall. When she spoke, her words were addressed to no one in particular, and she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye.

 

‘I need some air.’

 

Then she turned on her heel, and all but fled as she went banging through the front doors of Jorrvaskr.

 

She had only made it part-way down the stone steps when the doors banged open again, and then she heard Farkas’ voice.

 

‘Merrin, wait up. Wait!’

 

She didn’t slow down, and she was at the bottom of the stairs before she felt a big hand on her shoulder. He spun her around, and then she was looking up into Farkas’ worried eyes.

 

‘Merrin, what happened in there? Is what you said true?’ His face was screwed up with obvious confusion, and concern. ‘A dragon attacked Helgen?’

 

It was plain that he was worried for her, but anger and humiliation still tore at her, and she shrugged out roughly from under his arm. ‘Yes.’

 

‘Are you _okay_?’ Both the sadness and the confusion on his face deepened. ‘This is awful. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?’

 

Regret stabbed at her, but she just shook her head at him. Another lump was rising in her throat, and staring at his anguished face was making it worse.

 

‘Please, Merrin, _talk_ to me!’

 

‘Farkas, _please_.’ The pleading tone in her friend’s voice tore at her heartstrings, and she placed a trembling hand on his chest as she looked up at him and shook her head.

 

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t talk about this now. I need some air. I need to think.’ Memories of Helgen were still rattling around in her head, and she wished she could close her eyes on them.

 

‘I want to help you, Mer. Please let me try.’ Farkas tried to take another step forward, but her hand on his chest held him in place. Again, she shook her head.

 

‘I know you do. But please, Farkas, I need to be alone for now. If you want to help me, give me space.’

 

His eyes were the color of cornflowers when he was upset, and the sight of tears glistening in them made Merrin feel even worse. But after just a second, he nodded.

 

‘Alright. I understand.’ He took a step away from her, and nodded. ‘Take all the time you need. I’ll leave you be. But when you _are_ ready, I want us to talk. Is that okay?’

 

She had no idea _when_ she’d ever feel ready, but Merrin didn’t tell him that. Instead, she nodded.

 

‘That’s okay.’

 

She stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, and watched him climb back up to Jorrvaskr. He turned around to look at her before he slipped inside, and the sadness she saw there made her stomach ball up. Then he disappeared into the hall, and Merrin set her sights on the Plains District.

 

She ended up huddled on the ground in the look-out culvert behind Olava the Feeble’s house, with her back against the old stone. It was quiet there – no sounds just then but the wind and the birds – and she took comfort in the peaceful sounds as she rested her head against the wall. Slowly at first, the images of Helgen began to settle back into the dark of her mind, where she’d tried to force them. Eventually, after several minutes of deep breathing and feeling the sunshine on her face, they were gone.

 

The quiet gave her plenty of opportunity to think.

 

She wasn’t surprised that Farkas had come after her when she’d left – the two of them really _had_ become friends since she’d come to Jorrvaskr, and it was huge news that she’d accidentally dropped on their heads. But she hadn’t realized _how_ friendly they’d gotten until she’d seen those tears in his eyes. Farkas was proving to be a sensitive, emotional man, intuitive to the feelings of the people around him...but she hadn’t expected that this would upset him so much. That seeing _her_ upset would upset him.

 

They _were_ going to have to talk about it, once she could handle it; it was obvious that he cared about her, and she at _least_ wanted to explain to him why she hadn’t said anything at all. Hopefully, he would understand.

 

She snorted at herself, then. Of _course_ Farkas would understand. Farkas had proven to her since she’d met him that he was the innately understanding type – regardless of what the others said about him being stupid. When he’d asked about her past and she’d rebuffed him, he hadn’t pried again.

 

It was facing everybody else that was going to be the problem.

 

The disturbing memories may have subsided, but the anger hadn’t, and neither had the embarrassment. How was she going to continue on her day to day at Jorrvaskr, now that everyone would be wanting to hear first hand about Helgen and the dragon? How could Vilkas be so closed-minded that he’d dismissed the rumors out of hand, without even considering the alternative? People had _died_ , and he’d acted like he had all the answers, when he wasn’t even _there_.

 

Merrin shook her head, took a breath. She needed to walk, or this anger wouldn’t go anywhere.

 

She decided to go down to the marketplace; she’d started to get friendly with a couple of the stall owners and other people who spent a lot of time there, and maybe a drink at the Bannered Mare would do something to help her relax.

 

 

Merrin had no sooner entered the marketplace when she heard a raised, angry voice, and it stopped her in her tracks.

 

‘You foolish old woman! You know nothing – _nothing_ of _our_ struggles! _Our_ suffering! Who asked you to make like you do?!’

 

The source of the shouting was coming from Fralia Gray-Mane’s stall. Two men were standing in front of it. She recognized one of them as Idolaf Battle-Born, one of the first men she’d seen when she’d come to Whiterun, dressed in his usual Imperial armor. The other man was the one who was shouting; he was greying, dressed in fine blue robes, but she couldn’t recognize him from the back. Beyond them, she could barely see Fralia herself, standing behind her counter, looking very red in the face. Merrin wasn’t the only one to stop in her tracks; several people in the square were staring at the trio, including other merchants.

 

‘Nothing?’ It was Fralia talking now; her voice sounded hard and bitter. ‘And what of my son? Hmm? What of my Thorald? Is _he_ nothing? Of course not. So don’t talk to me about _suffering_.’

 

Idolaf sneered. ‘Thorald chose his side, and he chose the wrong one. Now he’s gone—that’s _war_. The sooner you accept that, the better.’

 

He’d said the words tauntingly, and they’d hit their mark; Fralia leaned over her stall counter with both hands on the wood, and got right up in their faces, her voice raising to a shout.

 

‘I will _never_ accept his death! My son still lives – I feel it in my heart! So _tell_ me, you disgusting cowards, where is he? _Where are you holding my Thorald?!’_

 

‘ _Father_.’ A third man got involved then, hurrying up to the stall. Merrin recognized him; tall and lean, with a trim blond beard and long hair tied back in a tail – he spent a lot of time in the market square. He grabbed the older man’s arm.

 

‘Father, stop this. It’s gone on long enough. Can’t you see there’s no point to this?’

 

The man he’d called father turned around, and Merrin could see that his face was lined – accentuated by his cruel expression. Angrily, he turned on the man who’d intervened.

 

‘And who are _you_ to tell me what’s enough? _You,_ who disappoints me at every turn? Look at your brother, beside me. Do you see _him_ presuming to tell me how to behave? Defending filthy Stormcloak _traitors?!_ The only thing more embarrassing than your weakness is your utter lack of _respect_.’

 

So this must have been Olfrid Battle-Born, then; he’d referred to Idolaf as the third man’s brother, and the stranger _looked_ like a blood relative.

 

Olfrid wasn’t done; the older man shoved the younger then, _hard_ , so that he staggered and sprawled onto the cobblestone of the market floor. Several people gasped at the display, and everyone looked uncomfortable..

 

‘Now mind your own _business_ , and get out of my _sight_! I know when _I’ve_ had enough.’

 

_Where was the guard who was usually posted here??_ The place where he usually stood was deserted, and there were no other guards in sight.

 

Olfrid’s younger son leapt to his feet, breathing hard, with a furious blush staining his face. For a second, he looked like he was going to lunge at Olfrid, but then he just shoved past him, storming up the stairs to the Bannered Mare and wordlessly slamming the door behind him.

 

Olfrid seemed utterly unaffected in the silence following his other son’s departure; as if there’d been no interruption, he looked over to Idolaf with a sneering smile.

 

‘Can you believe this old hag?’ He laughed, and looked at Fralia, who was staring at him now as if he were pond scum.

 

‘“Holding him?” Why, don’t you know? I’ve got him in my cellar! He’s my prisoner!’

 

He laughed for a second at his own cruel joke, and then took a step closer to Fralia, all pretenses of amusement gone. His voice was as harsh as rock grating rock.

 

‘Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor. And you’d best learn to keep your _mouth_ shut, before you suffer the same.’

 

‘ _That’s enough.’_

 

Merrin had no idea when she’d moved; instead of standing at the edge of the market, she was two steps away from the Battle-Borns. Once again, she’d spoken without having any plans to.

 

Somewhere along the way, it had clicked in her mind: _this was who the Gray-Manes were mourning for._ Seeing the old man in front of her tormenting Fralia over her lost son had her even angrier than she’d been at Vilkas; when the two men turned around to see who’d spoken, looking annoyed, her face was as hard as chiseled stone.

 

‘Leave. _Now_.’

 

‘And who in Oblivion are _you_?’ Olfrid sneered. ‘My patience is already worn thin. I’ll have no qualms about having my son deal with you, if you don’t get out of my way.’

 

‘Your son is welcome to try,’ Merrin dead-panned. ‘Who I am doesn’t matter. I told you to _leave_. Now. Nobody wants you here.’

 

‘Oh?’ There seemed to be no end to this man’s malice; he threw his head back and laughed like a villain.

 

‘Do you even know who I _am_ , you stupid girl? I’m above reproach. Nobody in this city would _dare_ to tell me to leave.’

 

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

 

It wasn’t Merrin who’d spoken; when she turned her head to see who had, she saw Anoriath striding towards her from his stall, glaring hard at the two Battle-Borns. He came to a stop beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder, facing the men down in solidarity.

 

‘The lady is right. I think you two should leave.’ His voice was harder than she’d ever heard it, and there was no trace of his usual smile on his face as he stared them down.

 

For a single beat, there was silence in the market place. Olfrid was staring at the two of them like something foul he’d stepped in. Then another voice chimed in.

 

‘I agree. I don’t want you here, either.’ This time it was Carlotta who’d spoken, looking coolly at the two men, and she’d rounded her stall to take a place at their side.

 

Merrin’s intervention had caused a chain reaction; people who weren’t brave enough to stand on their own started flocking to join the little band standing in front of Fralia’s stall. Sigurd came to stand beside them, and then so did Brenuin the Redguard beggar, mumbling something about Olfrid being stingy, anyway.

 

‘They’re right!’ Ysolda put down her flower basket and stood beside them, hands on hips. ‘You have no right to abuse people this way.’

 

Even little Mila Valentia ended up having her say; she came to grab a handful of her mother’s skirt, and blew a loud raspberry at the Battle-Born men. ‘Miss Fralia is one of the nicest people I know, and you two are just a couple of big bullies! Go away!’

 

It was astonishing; in the space of a minute or two, every single person who’d been in the square was standing in front of Fralia’s stall, staring down the Battle-Borns as a united front.

 

The final straw was when they heard Hulda’s voice, coming from the open door of the Bannered Mare; she’d obviously seen at least part of what had happened, and she was grinning rather unkindly at Olfrid as she had her say.

 

‘They’re right, Olfrid. If you want to shame yourself by smackin’ your own kin around in public when they try to have you act decent, then for God’s sake, don’t do it on _my_ doorstep.’

 

Merrin took another step forward, and couldn’t help but smile at Olfrid then.

 

‘Well, old man, I don’t know. It seems to me like there are _plenty_ of people in this city who _would_ dare tell you to leave. You should stop harassing Fralia, and take our advice.’

 

If looks could kill, they would all be dead; Olfrid was ready to keep on fighting – but his son wasn’t. Idolaf had been looking increasingly uneasy as more and more people joined them. In the moment of silence following Merrin’s words, a resolute expression slid onto his face, and he grabbed his father by the arm of his robes and turned to whisper something in his ear.

 

Whatever he said must have been better received than his other son’s attempt, because Olfrid finally stood down. He drew himself up to his full height, staring down his nose at the group of people in front of him.

 

‘Idiots, the lot of you. You’re all going to regret this.’ He spit on the ground in front of them, and then he shook off his son’s hand and stalked down the road, towards the Drunken Huntsman.

 

Somebody in their crowd let out a cheer as they left, and in the space of a beat, all the rest had joined in, cheering and laughing. Anoriath clapped her on the back, and Mila Valentia hugged her leg, calling her a hero.

 

‘I’m _not_ ,’ Merrin tried to insist, embarrassed. ‘ _Somebody_ had to say something.’

 

‘Nah, the kid is right,’ Brenuin sidled up and cut in with a grin. ‘You gotta have balls to stand up to the Battle-Born. Eh, I mean, you obviously don’t have _those_ , but—she’s right, alright? Jeez.’

 

But the person who had the last word was Fralia herself. She’d been holding it together as the Battle-Borns left, but now she broke down into overwhelmed sobs; as quickly as she could, she was running around her stall, and then she crashed into Merrin, hugging her fiercely.

 

‘Thank you, you sweet girl. Thank you.’

 

Automatically, Merrin’s arms came up around the shaking woman, and she stammered a reply even she couldn’t hear. The crowd around them was making sympathetic noises, and she felt several people brush around her arms as they patted Fralia on the back and tried to soothe her crying.

 

After a while, Fralia _did_ calm down, her sobs easing to hiccups, and then Hulda spoke again from her place on the steps.

 

‘There’s a girl, Fralia, take a breath.’ Then she addressed the crowd. ‘Well. I don’t know about you lot, but after all that, _I_ could damn-well use a drink. They’re on the house for the time being, for everyone who had a hand. Oh, and juice for our fairy, of course,’ she finished, sending a wink Mila’s way.

 

‘So come inside, whoever’s thirsty!’ With that, she disappeared back into the tavern, leaving the door open behind her.

 

There was another cheer, and most of the group started clambering up the steps to the Mare. Brenuin was in the lead, whooping something about ‘dogoodin’ bein’ thirsty work’. Carlotta and Anoriath stayed behind, asking Fralia if she would be alright; she insisted that she was fine and thanked them both for their support, and then they filed into the tavern, too.

 

In the end, it was just Merrin and Fralia left in the market square. Belethor poked his head out of his store’s front door, as if he’d only now noticed there’d been a commotion, but when he saw a mostly empty square, he just shrugged and closed it again.

 

Fralia had ended up leaning against the counter of her stall, and in the new relative silence, she looked up at Merrin again with teary blue eyes and a small smile.

 

‘Thank you again, dear. It means a lot to this old heart, you all doing what you did. It was mighty brave.’

 

Merrin grimaced, frustrated. ‘It was nothing, really. I wish I could’ve done more. That man is an animal.’

 

‘That’s an insult to animals everywhere,’ Fralia said, and sighed. ‘Our families have been buttin’ heads for a long time now. This is nothin’ new.’

 

‘What he did was wrong,’ Merrin said angrily. ‘You’ve suffered a terrible loss. Nobody deserves to have a lost child rubbed in their face like that. It’s heartless.’

 

Fralia’s feeble smile widened a bit, and her eyes were sad as she reached up with one bony hand to pat Merrin tenderly on the cheek.

 

‘My husband was right about you – you’re all heart. A shame some other folk choose to be so unfeeling.’

 

‘I’m sorry about your son, Fralia,’ Merrin answered quietly. The look in the older woman’s eyes was tearing at her heart. ‘I’d wanted to ask Eorlund about it, but I—’

 

‘Thorald isn’t dead.’ Immediately, Fralia’s eyes were filling again. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry he is. Please.’

 

Merrin’s stomach twisted uneasily; how did she respond to that?

 

‘I – I’m sorry, Fralia. I meant no disrespect. I took it that he’d died, and the Battle-Borns...’ she trailed off apologetically.

 

Fralia shook her head, chin jutting out stubbornly.

 

‘They _say_ that he was killed, oh yes. But _I_ know better! I _know_ my son is alive!’

 

There was no room for argument in the woman’s eyes, and Merrin wasn’t going to ask how she could be so sure; Fralia had already seen enough upset.

 

But Fralia was sharp, and she must have caught the question in Merrin’s eyes, because she shook her head and tittered.

 

‘You’re too polite to speak your mind. But I’ve heard it all before. _‘Fralia, how can you be so sure that Thorald isn’t dead? He was a soldier, for God’s sake!’_ ’ Her face hardened, but in her eyes there was desperation.

 

‘But I _am_ sure! I _know_ he’s alive. It’s those Battle-Born...they’re in with the Imperial Legion. _They_ know it too, and yet they _lie_ to my very face, and laugh at a mother’s torment!’ After her emotional outburst, she covered trembling lips with a shaking hand, and squeezed her eyes shut.

 

Merrin was shaken, and stood there feeling deeply uncertain; something about Fralia’s words had chilled her. She was _so certain_ that her son was alive...and Olfrid Battle-Born had taken such _obvious_ pleasure in telling her that her son was dead...as she stood there and watched Fralia tremble, the beginnings of suspicion took root in her chest.

 

‘Fralia, what makes you so sure that they’re lying to you?’

 

The old woman’s eyes snapped open, and pierced Merrin with their pleading, tear-drenched depths.

 

‘It wouldn’t be wise to discuss it here. But I speak the truth. _Please_ , if you truly wish to help us, come with me to my family home. I’ll tell you the whole story there!’

 

Her plea was so genuine, her tone so raw with emotion that Merrin didn’t doubt she was telling the truth, and knowing it made her anger swell; something cruel was going on here.

 

She’d promised herself that she’d be less impulsive after joining the Companions, but that didn’t stop her now from nodding her head – from putting a hand on Fralia’s arm.

 

‘Alright. Lead the way.’

 

For a second, the older woman looked as if she couldn’t believe her ears. And then she clutched at Merrin with both hands. ‘You mean it? Oh, by the Nine! Come then, let’s not waste time!’

 

With Fralia in the lead, the two women hurried up the stairs to the Wind District and then crossed the footbridge over the man-made stream. Odeth saw them coming, and let out a bugled greeting as they passed, but Fralia paid the cow no mind. In no time at all, Merrin was being ushered past the rearing twin griffins and through the front door of House Gray-Mane.

 

Fralia bolted the door behind them once they were inside, and then turned to Merrin, nervously clasping her hands.

 

‘Thank you for coming. Welcome to our home.’

 

‘It’s beautiful, Fralia.’

 

It was the truth; she’d been told that this home was _ancient_ , and the inside testified to that. It was built in an _old_ traditional Nordic style, similar to a longhouse. A long, central firepit was throwing golden light onto everything in the high-ceilinged main room, bouncing off of wooden pillars that were carved into the likeness of several different animals, who’s paws and hooves were all raised in the act of holding up the ceiling or second floor. Woven tapestries of many faded colors covered the walls all the way down the room, and the far wall was dominated by a massive fireplace who’s carved stone mantel was cluttered with what were likely family heirlooms. In front of the fireplace sat a banquet table, obviously well-cared for, but looking old enough to have been an original part of the house.

 

She’d only just gotten a feel for the room when the sound of booted feet came rushing down some stairs, and then she heard a man’s voice.

 

‘Ma, is that you? Who’re you talking to?’

 

She turned to see who’d spoken, and came face to face with a man in plainclothes, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

 

His hair and beard were completely grey, but his face wasn’t lined. He had hard features, made more prominent by a hard expression, and for one whole second, they looked at one another in obvious surprise. Then the man suddenly lunged to the side, hand darting into an open display case and coming back out with a steel sword that glinted wickedly in the firelight. With his lips curled back in a snarl, he pointed it at her.

 

‘Who the _hell_ are you?’

 

‘ _Avulstein_!’ Behind her, Fralia was sounding absolutely mortified. ‘ _Put that down!_ ’

 

‘What are you then, huh? Are you Legion? Here to try and take me away?’ He growled. ‘It’s not happening. If you lay a _hand_ on my mother, I’m gonna make you wish you were—’

 

‘ _Avulstein, please!’_ Fralia shouted this time. ‘ _Listen to me!_ She isn’t an Imperial, she’s a friend! She’s here to help us find Thorald!’

 

Avulstein paused, but only for a second; his blue eyes narrowed even more as they swept over her, and he didn’t lower the sword. She kept an eye on him for any sudden moves.

 

‘Oh, yeah? How do we know she isn’t some sort of spy for the Battle-Born? It was foolish to bring her here, ma! There’s no telling what those bastards will do if they find me here!’

 

‘She’s no spy.’ Now Fralia was sounding indignant, and she came to stand right beside Merrin, putting a hand on her shoulder.

 

‘This is Merrin – the Companion’s newest recruit! _She’s_ the one been workin’ with your father!’

 

‘Oh.’ Clearly, the pieces clicked; the man’s brows furrowed, making him look _just_ like a younger version of Eorlund, and after another second, he lowered the sword. ‘I see.’

 

‘Do you? It’s about damn time! Now put that thing away, I’m sick to death of weapons.’ Fralia’s voice was shrill, and full of tears. ‘ _Please_ , let’s just talk.’

 

Another long second passed; Avulstein was looking more sheepish than suspicious now. Finally, he nodded his head, and gingerly put the sword back in its case.

 

‘Alright, ma.’

 

Then he held out one calloused, tentative hand, staring her directly in the eye. ‘Avulstein Gray-Mane. It’s Merrin Hakonsdotter, right? We’ve heard a lot about you.’

 

She had never seen this man before – _how_ much had he heard about her? She shot him a wry smile, and took his hand for a shake.

 

‘Well met. You have my thanks for not skewering me.’

 

He grimaced. ‘It’s been a hard year. A man can never be too careful.’ He released her, and then looked her over again, expression growing dead serious. ‘So. You really want to help with Thorald?’

 

‘If he really is alive, then I’ll do whatever I can.’

 

 

‘They’re the Emperor’s biggest boot-lickers in all of Whiterun. Their connections to the Empire and the Legion are well-known. When ma sent word that he’d gone missing, there was no doubt in my mind.’

 

The three of them had sunken into armchairs clustered around one end of the fire, and Fralia and Avulstein had worked together to unfold the entire story for Merrin. What she’d learned so far was making her blood boil.

 

The Gray-Mane’s middle child had been missing for over three _months_ – there’d been a raid in his camp back in the spring, and he and several other Stormcloaks had been dragged off in the night. Other than that, there’d been no word – the family had no idea what’d become of him. The only reason they had _that_ much information was because Fralia had written to Avulstein about his brother’s disappearance, and he’d gone straight from his own posting to Thorald’s, looking for answers.

 

Fralia had begged Avulstein to come home, but home wasn’t much safer than the battlefield; they’d smuggled him into the city in the dead of night two months ago, and the reason Merrin had never seen him before was because he never left the house. Avulstein was a known Stormcloak rebel; there was a warrant out for his arrest. And the Battle-Borns had it out for them all. So he spent every day in the confines of his family’s home, pacing the floors in frustration, a bird in a cage. The only reason he was safe was because the Battle-Borns had no idea he was there.

 

Still, their story confused her.

 

‘But...why? What do they have to gain? Even if the Battle-Borns _did_ tip off the raid, what would _they_ get out of it?’ She furrowed her brow. ‘Favor with General Tullius?’

 

‘That, and just plain old spiteful satisfaction,’ Fralia replied, voice trembling.

 

‘Why—’

 

‘Because!’ Thorald barked, frustrated. ‘The Battle-Borns pitched in with the Empire years and years ago. They’ve never forgiven me an’ Thorald for joining the rebellion. Olfrid would be _happy_ to see us dead.’ His eyes shone as hard as flint in the firelight, and he clenched his hands into fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

 

‘It’s personal, plain and simple. They had my brother locked up someplace just to get back at our family – to make us suffer.’ He growled. ‘And they _know_ where he’s being kept. I know it.’

 

Through her anger, her heart went out to the people in front of her; how bitter and twisted did a person have to be, to make an entire family suffer like this? She’d known that the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns were feuding, but according to Ria, they’d used to be friends – was there no mercy left in the Battle-Borns? Was there nothing this war wouldn’t spoil?

 

At length, Merrin’s eyes flicked back to Avulstein’s.

 

‘If that’s true, then I feel for your family, and Thorald. But those are serious accusations. We’d need proof to back them up. Not to mention to find out _where_ Thorald is.’

 

Avulstein gave a harsh sigh, and raked his hands through his hair.

 

‘Our hands have been tied. My parents can’t get their hands on the information. I’d _die_ before I’d send my sister. And if _I_ tried to find proof, that would be playing right into the Battle-Born’s hands. The second they saw me on their property, they’d have me carted off and arrested. Then we’d _never_ find out what happened to Thorald.’

 

Seconds passed, and the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and an occasional sniff from Fralia. Then, suddenly, Avulstein’s head snapped back up from where he’d been looking into the flames, and his eyes pierced Merrin’s with dawning realization.

 

‘Hold on...maybe that’s it. Maybe this is where _you_ can help.’

 

Fralia spoke up, sounding confused. ‘Avulstein, what...?’

 

‘ _She_ can get us the proof we need!’ Excitedly, he turned back to Merrin. ‘Think about it: the Battle-Borns don’t know you from Akatosh. They have no idea that you want to help us. They’ll have hidden the information somewhere, not wanting everyone to find out they’ve been lying. But maybe _you_ can butter them up enough for them to let something slip!’

 

_Shit_. Merrin and Fralia turned to look at one another, and knew they were both thinking the exact same thing; when it came to Merrin and Olfrid, there wasn’t enough butter on Nirn. Wincing, she turned back to Avulstein.

 

‘That won’t work. It’s part of how I even got involved – Olfrid and I had a run-in. Those bridges have been burnt to the ground.’

 

Fralia had already sagged; Avulstein swore. Merrin gritted her teeth, feeling useless and stuck, and the room descended back into silence.

 

Then once again, Avulstein broke it. This time, he was speaking carefully.

 

‘Hold on. It might not matter. There’s more than _one_ way to get information.’

 

Instantly, he had Merrin’s attention; she met his gaze, alight with new hope.

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

The big Nord rose from his chair, and walked to one of several side tables pushed up against the walls, opening a drawer and rifling around. When he came back, he stopped to stand in front of her, and opened a clenched fist to reveal what he’d grabbed: a set of lock picks.

 

Fralia saw them at the same time as she did, and let out a strangled gasp. ‘Avulstein, _no!_ We can’t ask Merrin to do that, it’s _illegal!_ If she were caught, she’d be punished. We can’t expect her to—’

 

‘I’ll do it.’

 

As mother and son fell silent and turned to look at her, a tiny voice screamed at Merrin somewhere in the back of her brain.

 

What did she _mean_ , she’d do it? _Why?_ She’d been doing her best to stay impartial on the war, so why would she illegally break into the home of law-abiding citizens to try and help a known Stormcloak rebel escape his fate? A criminal, in the eyes of the Empire?

 

But she squashed the voice out like a bug.

 

Not too long ago, _she’d_ been considered a criminal in the eyes of the Empire, too. If it hadn’t been for somebody showing _her_ kindness, she would be dead right now.

 

She _had_ done her best to stay impartial in the war, but deep in her heart, Merrin knew this was different. It didn’t matter that Thorald was a Stormcloak – it didn’t even _really_ matter that she’d come to care for both Eorlund and Fralia, since she’d arrived.

 

What mattered was that if what she was being told was true, then Thorald had been targeted out of nothing but spite, and his family deserved to know where he was. Finding that out wasn’t just the honorable thing to do – it was the _right_ thing to do.

 

Outside of her internal conflict, Fralia was talking again, sounding nervous and wringing her hands.

 

‘Oh, dear, you can’t! We appreciate you wanting to help Thorald, we do. But that’s asking too much. You seem like a good girl...I don’t want you getting into trouble for our sake.’

 

Merrin stood resolutely, and shook her head at Fralia. She put a hand on the woman’s slender shoulder, and smiled.

 

‘I can handle some trouble, Fralia. You all deserve to know what’s happened to Thorald.’

 

‘But, Merrin,’ the older woman started, blue eyes huge and anxious.

 

‘Please.’ Merrin interrupted her. ‘I really want to do this. It’s the right thing to do.’

 

Letting her hand drop from Fralia’s shoulder, Merrin turned resolutely to Avulstein, and plucked the lock picks from his open hand. When she looked him in the eye, the determined fire she saw blazing there was a mirror of her own.

 

‘What sort of proof am I looking for?’

 

 

It was a beautiful day in Whiterun, and a Sundas on top of that; most of the city’s inhabitants were either strolling around and enjoying the market, or lounging around, enjoying the sun. Nobody had paid any mind to a lone woman passing through the Wind District.

 

And now, Merrin was crouched in the grass and tucked out of sight, with her back pressed against the farthest wall of House Battle-Born.

 

She’d done an inconspicuous circle of the house to choose the best entry point, and had been more than pleased to discover that someone had left a ground-floor window open on the side of the house that couldn’t be seen from the road. She’d spent the last ten minutes sitting directly under said window, listening carefully for any sounds from within – and there hadn’t been any.

 

It was time to make her move.

 

Moving smoothly and confidently, Merrin hoisted herself up onto the windowsill, and peeked through the glass.

 

The room obviously belonged to a child, with a small bed in one corner and several toys on the floor...and it was empty. Taking this as a good sign, she forged ahead. The window was opened just wide enough that she could shimmy through, and she did so head first, putting her palms on the stone floor to brace herself.

 

As soon as she was inside, she listened some more before moving a muscle; all was still as silent as before, so she tiptoed her way to the door, careful not to trip on anything.

 

The door to the child’s room was closed, and she opened it by the barest of margins to listen for anyone on the other side, but heard no one. Finally, she dared to push the door open far enough to peek her head around.

 

The Battle-Born’s home had seemed newer and better polished from outside than the Gray-Mane’s – on the inside, it was even more so. The great room she now looked in on was richly appointed, filled with brand new furniture and all kinds of finery, and in a second it was made abundantly clear which family was the wealthier. But where the space was full of _things_ , it was empty of _people_ ; she didn’t see a soul anywhere in the long hall, and there were only embers in the hearth of the enormous fire pit on the far side of the room. As it happened, the layout of the house was to her fortune; the floor of the partial second story was directly above her head, and even if there _were_ people upstairs, they wouldn’t be able to see her if they looked down into the great room.

 

There was a set of double doors directly across the room from her, with a decoratively carved piece of wood nailed above the doorway. She could see there were letters carved into the wood’s surface, and when she squinted, she could make out them out as ‘ _O.B-B’ – Olfrid Battle-Born._ Seeing the letters, Merrin allowed herself a smile; it would seem that luck was on her side, in this particular endeavour. As quietly as she possibly could, she crept across the flagstone and put an ear to one of the doors.

 

Silence met her there, too – it looked like the family was out for the day like most everyone else, and Olfrid himself must’ve still been wallowing in the Drunken Huntsmen. Still, she was careful opening the door.

 

The bedroom she walked into was also very grand, with a four-poster bed heaped with green velvet covers, and genuine silver service sitting on a washstand beside it. A vanity with a large, oval mirror sat in the corner holding a woman’s things, and that surprised her – Ria had told her that Olfrid’s wife had died a long time ago.

 

Merrin closed the bedroom door softly behind her, and began the search in earnest. She went through his nightstands, the chest at the foot of his bed, and his armoire, finding nothing each time. She even searched the vanity, to no avail.

 

She wasn’t surprised; Avulstein had warned her that whatever she was looking for would be hidden away.

 

There was a door on the other side of the room, slightly narrower than average – she’d figured it to be some sort of closet or linen cupboard when she’d first come in. But she was empty-handed. It was worth a try.

 

When she twisted the knob and found it locked, she broke into a smile.

 

It was a good lock, of much finer quality than a closet would merit, and it took her several minutes of delicate picking before she heard the telltale _snick_ of the gates turning.

 

The room turned out to be a study, and she could tell right away that _this_ was where the patriarch of Clan Battle-Born conducted his business. A bookshelf beside her was crammed to bursting with expensive-looking leather-bound tomes, and there was an iron safe sitting in the corner.

 

But she was drawn immediately to the desk against the back wall. All four corners were topped with fat, stubby candles, wax dripping down the legs of the desk, and in the middle of the desktop was a haphazard pile of paperwork.

 

She started carefully rifling through the paper, and found a wide assortment of things; personal correspondence from people who were obviously friends...letters from various businesses, thanking him for his recent donations...statements from a bank in Solitude. Even a letter of inheritance, stamped with the seal of Markarth.

 

None of it was of interest to her, and she was about to stop digging and rearrange the pile when something caught her eye: the official seal of the Imperial Legion, stamped in crimson wax.

 

_Gotcha_. Merrin was smiling triumphantly as she pulled the stiff, elaborately folded missive from the pile, and lifted the already broken seal to read the words on the paper.

 

But as she read the letter’s contents, the smile quickly died.

 

 

_To one Mr. Olfrid Battle-Born of Whiterun,_

 

_It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane, also of Whiterun._

 

_As you know, the person in question is a convicted Stormcloak rebel, who has been taken into the Empire’s custody, and normally protocol would dictate that such inquiries were to go unanswered. However, due to the instrumental part you played in enabling the capture of Mr. Gray-Mane and a number of his compatriots, as well as the loyalty you displayed to the Empire in doing so, an exception will be made._

 

_The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Thorald Gray-Mane has recently been removed from the original site of his detainment, and taken into the custody of Thalmor agents. From our prison, he was escorted to Northwatch Keep._

 

_I don’t think further elaboration is necessary; from here on out, it is in the best interest of everyone involved for the matter to be dropped entirely. With this in mind, I trust that there will be no further inquiries as to this matter._

 

_Yours in duty,_

_Gen. G. Tullius, Military Governor, Ambassador of Cyrodiil_

 

 

The letter was dated from a week ago. She covered her mouth with her free hand as she stared at Tullius’ flourishing signature, and her heart plummeted.

 

_The Thalmor_.

 

The news couldn’t have been worse – it would’ve been better if she’d read that Thorald was rotting in Cidhna Mine. The dark insinuations on the piece of paper in her hand were nothing compared to the weight of this reality; any Stormcloak in Thalmor hands was in the direst of straights. And only for so long.

 

A week...longer, since the response likely hadn’t been prompt. She needed to get back to Avulstein with the letter, and _now_. They could already be too late.

 

She hastily returned the pile to the order she’d found it in, and relocked the study door on her way out. As quickly as she dared, she tip-toed from the bedroom and across the great room, to the child’s bedroom with the open window, closing each door behind her as she went.

 

Her heart was pounding from the urgency of the situation, but that was nothing compared to what happened next. She was half-way through the window, with one arm and leg still inside the house, when she heard running footsteps and a child’s voice, quickly approaching the bedroom.

 

‘Alright, alright Mila, gimme a second!’

 

It must have been Lars, come to get something from his room. If she didn’t move fast, in another second he would open that door and see her hanging from his window.

 

There was nothing for it; she wrenched her leg painfully the rest of the way through, biting back a curse as she fell gracelessly into a heap in the grass below. She’d cleared the window without a moment to spare – the door to the bedroom had come flying open, and now she could hear Lars clearly.

 

‘Huh? Is somebody there?’

 

_Oh, gods._ He must’ve heard the scratching of her yanking herself through. As she scrambled to press her back against the wood directly beneath the window and hugged her legs tight to her chest, she could barely hear his approaching footsteps over the thundering gallop of her own heartbeat.

 

‘Hello?’ His childish voice was _right_ at the window now; if he thought to poke his head out and look down, there would be nowhere for her to hide. Merrin held her breath, and resisted the urge to close her eyes.

 

For an endless moment, there was nothing but silence, and she was terrified that he would hear the hammering of her heart against her ribs. But then she heard Lars speak again, clearly to himself, sounding confused.

 

‘ _Huh._ Weird....oh well.’

 

To her immense relief, his footsteps picked back up again, heading away from the window. He started to whistle an aimless tune, and after he shut his bedroom door, she heard him call out to Mila, ‘alright, I’ve got it! Let’s go!’

 

Merrin _sagged_ against the wood once he’d gone, and gusted out an enormous breath. That had been _much_ too close, and if it hadn’t been a little boy who’d heard her, it likely wouldn’t have ended so well. As she took some deep, steadying breaths, she reminded herself again that not _all_ of her luck was bad _._

 

But she didn’t rest there long; as soon as her pulse hit an even keel, she tucked the incriminating letter into her tunic and hastily got to her feet. She had bad, important news, and now she had to deliver it.

 

 

All of the blood had drained from Avulstein’s face as he and Fralia had read the letter. His mother had finished a few seconds before him, and now she was clutching at her chest, her body wracked with silent sobs. When he finally looked back at Merrin, his expression was stunned, and his eyes were pools of despair.

 

‘The _Thalmor?_ By the Nine,’ he moaned. ‘It’s even worse than we thought.’

 

Merrin had left her armor behind before she’d slipped into the Battle-Born’s house, and she nodded at him grimly now as she picked the pieces up out of her chair and slid them back on, one by one. The sight of Fralia twisted in anguish was like a dagger being twisted into her chest, and once again she cursed the letter for bearing such hateful news.

 

The older woman let out a wail then, and she dug her fingers like claws into Avulstein’s arms as she collapsed against him. He wrapped both arms around her so she wouldn’t fall to the floor, and then she shuddered violently, choking words out in between her sobs.

 

‘They’ll _kill_ him. Those – those – _animals_ will tear him apart!’ She moaned as if she were locked in a nightmare. ‘My _son_...not my boy...’

 

Merrin couldn’t take any more. She leapt forward toward the two, hands spread out in front of her, and words came tumbling out of her before she could think them through.

 

‘Maybe he can still be saved! Don’t give up now!’

 

Fralia kept right on sobbing as if she hadn’t spoken, but Avulstein met her eye, looking resolved and tormented in equal measure.

 

‘I have no intention of _giving up_ ,’ he growled. ‘The letter said Northwatch Keep. So I know where to hit them.’

 

Merrin nodded, over-eager, desperate for the purpose of action. ‘Yes! So what’s your plan, then?’ When the Thalmor were involved, if you wanted to win, you needed a plan.

 

‘My _plan_?’ Avulstein scoffed. ‘There _is_ no plan. The plan is for me to leave Whiterun, get to Northwatch Keep, and get my brother back – dead or alive.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘If he can be saved, then I’ll save him. And if not, then I’m bringing his body back home. I’ll not leave it with those monsters.’

 

The meaning of his words dawned on her, and she gaped at him, open-mouthed.

 

‘...What, you mean by _yourself_??’ Merrin asked him, horrified.

 

He waved a hand at her, frustrated and dismissive. ‘Who else? There’s nobody I can trust to help.’

 

An idea clicked; more words tumbled from her.

 

‘What about the Companions?! This is exactly the sort of thing they do! I’m sure they would help you, now that you know for sure where Thorald is.’ She said it all in a rush, trying her best to reason with him. ‘You don’t stand a chance against all those Thalmor on your own!’

 

Fralia’s wailing cries redoubled then, and Avulstein shot Merrin a glare as he guided his mother into the nearest armchair and started rubbing soothing circles onto her back. When he spoke, his tone was scathing.

 

‘ _Bull_. They’ve known for a long time that Thorald was missing – one of the first things my parents did was go to Kodlak and Skjor, asking them for help.’ He hissed out a breath, looking furious. ‘And do you know what they were told? That the Companions don’t get involved in political affairs. That Thorald was a Stormcloak, and because of it, their hands were tied. It’s _bullshit,’_ he repeated on a growl. ‘I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the _glorious_ band you’ve joined is made of nothing but money-grubbing _cowards_.’

 

The words were like a bucket of icy water, splashing over her and chilling her to the bone. She didn’t want to believe them, and standing there, she nearly told him so. How could they be the truth? The group of people she’d been living with didn’t match the description Avulstein had given – they were loyal, heartfelt, brave...honorable. Even the least likeable of them carried themselves with honor and discipline. The idea that they would turn their backs on someone who needed them so badly was preposterous.

 

_But what reason did Avulstein have to lie?_ The question hooked itself into Merrin’s chest, making her squirm as it demanded an answer.

 

For several seconds, she grappled with doubt. But then urgency shoved it aside, with a hand that brought perspective.

 

Regardless of what the Companions had or hadn’t done, the reality remained the same: if Thorald was still alive, he desperately needed help. And so did Avulstein.

 

One more time, Merrin’s mouth opened of its own accord.

 

‘Then _I’m_ coming with you.’

 

She hadn’t planned to say the words, but the second they were out, she agreed with them; there was no niggling voice in the back of her head, questioning her sanity. This was right.

 

Avulstein was staring at her now like _he_ was questioning her sanity. Even Fralia, who’d been despondent since reading the letter, had choked back her sobs to stare at her. Avulstein was the first to speak.

 

‘ _What?_ Are you serious?’

 

‘You _can’t_ go alone,’ Merrin replied steadily. ‘Or you won’t come back. If you’re going to Northwatch, you need help. If you have nobody else, then I’m coming with you.’

 

For a second, he was silent – then he spluttered.

 

‘Look—Merrin—I know you came because you wanted to help, and you have. But—but I don’t even really _know_ you! It’s not—’

 

‘I don’t even really know _you_ ,’ Merrin said, cutting him off. ‘And you’re a Stormcloak _fugitive_. I could be arrested for being _seen_ with you!’ She stared at him directly, irritated, willing him to see the sense in her words.

 

‘But that doesn’t change Thorald’s situation. You are in _no_ position to be turning down help, even if the person offering it is a stranger.’

 

He was looking defensive as he stared at her now, and his words came out sounding the same.

 

‘Look. I appreciate the offer, but it’s going to be a _rough_ trip, and I don’t know how you’d hold up. I don’t even know if you can really _handle_ yourself in a fight, and there’s _going to be—_ ’

 

‘Avulstein.’

 

It was Fralia. Her voice sounded strangely brittle, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as she stared fiercely up at her son.

 

‘Enough of this. You know she’s right. You _can’t_ get Thorald back on your own.’ Her tone was on the verge of accusing, and she lurched back to her feet unsteadily, when it looked like she really _should_ be sitting.

 

‘Here stands somebody _right_ in front of you—somebody capable—and you think to turn her down? You’re being a fool.’ Her voice cracked, and wavered with more tears. ‘Will you really go rushing into that keep all alone, and make me lose two of my children at once?’

 

At first, Avulstein had looked ready to argue, but had deflated as she’d continued; now, he looked stricken with shame.

 

‘No, mother. Of course not.’ He drew up beside Fralia and hugged her to him, tucking her head under his chin and staring hard at the fire. ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you. I just want what we all want. I want Thorald safe.’

 

They stayed that way for a second, locked in the simple embrace, and then Fralia pulled away to look him pointedly in the eye.

 

‘Then go, but make it so that you’ll be coming back _home_ , too. Accept the help.’

 

Merrin had stood there while all of this unfolded, feeling slightly intrusive and out of place, but when Avulstein looked at her again, the feeling faded. He was staring at her hard, his expression clouded.

 

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked, sounding uncertain. ‘We’d need to leave straight away, and the trip will be made on horseback, so you’ll need to ride. Northwatch is days from here – up in Northern Haafingar. And it _will_ be dangerous.’

 

She heard his words, but they didn’t deter her – she’d already made her mind up, and she nodded at him resolutely.

 

‘I’m sure. I told you I wanted to help you and Thorald. I meant it.’

 

He looked at her for another long beat, and then slowly returned the nod.

 

‘Alright, then. I won’t lie – I don’t understand why you’re doing this thing for us. But you have my thanks.’

 

‘ _All_ of our thanks.’ Fralia came walking over to her then, and took both of Merrin’s hands into her own. ‘No matter... _how_ this turns out,’ she said with some difficulty. ‘We’ll never forget this.’ And then she kissed both of Merrin’s cheeks.

 

Merrin had rescued people before, but she’d never gotten used to the family’s emotional reactions, and she was tongue-tied for a response. All she could do was smile at Fralia, and give her hands a squeeze. Luckily, Avulstein spoke up again then, and no words were needed.

 

‘If we’re going, then we’d better leave as soon as possible.’ He turned to his mother, looking uncertain. ‘What will you tell Da and Olfina? They’re going to notice I’m gone.’

 

‘Leave that part to me,’ Fralia responded. ‘I don’t want to get their hopes up, in case...’ she swallowed hard, and shook her head. ‘In case it’s too late. Best they don’t know, for now. I’ll think up something else to tell them.’

 

Avulstein nodded, and then he suddenly sniffed hard; he took a huge step forward and wrapped his mother into a crushing hug. They stayed that way for several moments, and this time Merrin spoke up from behind them.

 

‘Don’t worry, Fralia. Avulstein and I will watch each other’s backs. I’ll bring him back to you, safe and sound.’ Then she turned her gaze to the big Nord man. ‘Right, Avulstein?’

 

He smiled grimly at her. ‘What, or else run the risk of losin’ my da’s new apprentice?’ He snorted. ‘He’d kill me. Yeah, I’ll have your back.’

 

_New apprentice?_ Merrin stared at Avulstein, feeling warm in the face. _What_ had _Eorlund been saying about her? Did he really consider her an apprentice?_ Unbidden, a huge smile spread over her face at the warming thought.

 

‘Alright, then. It’s settled.’ Fralia pulled away from her son and stood in front of them with hands on hips. A new light of hope had sparked to life in her eyes, and she looked them over with a determined expression.

 

‘We’d better get you two ready for the trip. The sooner you get going, the better your chances.’

 

Merrin and Avulstein nodded in unison; when he spoke, he sounded as determined as Fralia looked.

 

‘I promise, ma. We’re getting Thorald back, no matter what.’

 

 

It was quiet back in Jorrvaskr; everyone must have either gone off on some sort of job, or out somewhere to enjoy themselves, and she’d slipped unnoticed into the empty newblood’s room.

 

That was exactly how Merrin wanted it. She was _still_ angry, still embarrassed, and didn’t want to have to answer any of the questions she was sure would be levelled her way if she was unlucky enough to run into anyone in the hall. And now there were more than just her own feelings in play; she was in a hurry, rushing to pack for the _very_ unexpected journey she was about to take. There were probably lives at stake – she didn’t have time to argue about dragons.

 

That was what she told herself over and over as she made her preparations – that she was _only_ rushing because of Thorald.

 

She and Avulstein had parted agreeing that they would get ready as fast as possible, and then meet up again at the city stables. And so, she was getting ready. With practiced efficiency, Merrin dragged her rucksack out from under her bed, and started filling it with everything she thought she’d need – they were taking horses, so she was generous. A couple changes of clothing, including a heavier set, in case it rained. Several potions each of health, magicka and stamina. A salve she’d purchased, to ward off infection, and bandages for wounds. The cookpot she’d had to buy got squashed on top, and inside it went a bundle of hard-tack wrapped in linen, in case there was no time for cooking, and flint, for striking fires. She had no maps for where they’d be going, but knew it was far, so she packed her extra water skin in case the main one broke.

 

She fastened her brand new bedroll to the bottom of the pack, and her unstrung bow diagonally across it, and then set it on her bed. Her armor needed a once-over, and she gave it one, checking ties and tightening straps until she was satisfied. She grabbed her sword and slid it into its sheathe, and then after a few seconds of hesitation, she borrowed a long, elven dagger from Ria’s armoire, and slid _that_ into her belt, too.

 

She stuffed her quiver with all the arrows she had, and placed it beside her pack to wait, while she dealt with her hair. It was wild as usual, and she didn’t want it in her face for the ride, so she plaited it back into a long braid and securely tied the end.

 

When everything was finally ready to go, she shouldered her pack, and then her quiver. The final thing she picked up was her helmet, and she slid it down into place before throwing her braid over her shoulder.

 

She climbed the stairs up from the sleeping quarters, and left Jorrvaskr without looking back.

 

 

When she arrived at the stables, Avulstein was already waiting for her, leaning against the inside of one of the stalls. She hadn’t realized it was him until he’d approached her; despite the heat, he was wearing a long grey cloak with a deep hood pulled up, his entire face in shadow. It made sense – he _was_ a fugitive, and nobody could know he was there. He had his own bulging pack on the ground beside him, and a battle-axe strapped to his back.

 

‘Are you ready?’ He asked quietly.

 

‘Ready.’

 

The Whiterun stables were both large and full, with well over two dozen stalls, most of which were occupied. Avulstein led her to two stalls side by side, most of the way down the stables, and then opened the padlocks securing the stall doors with a key on a chain that he took from his neck.

 

Inside the stalls were two beautiful horses – a grey dapple gelding, and a chestnut mare. He spoke to them in soft voices, stroking each on the nose, and then he turned to her.

 

‘You’ll be riding my brother’s horse, the chestnut. Her name is Sparrow. Do you need any help saddling up?’

 

Sparrow softly knickered at her then, and Merrin was immediately charmed, coming up to stroke the horse’s velvet nose herself. She didn’t need any help saddling, and told him so.

 

All of the tack was sitting in chests at the ends of the stalls, and the saddles on pegs from the wall; they got to work, and a short time later, she was vaulting herself into the saddle and urging Sparrow away from the stables, with Avulstein following suit. The stable hand was dozing in and out, and barely glanced their way as they set off at a trot.

 

In another minute, they were on the northern road headed away from the city. Avulstein drew up beside her, so they could talk.

 

‘Aright. So far, so good. Nobody saw me leave – as soon as we’re out of view of the farms, I’ll take off this cloak...’ In his saddle, he started. ‘Oh! That reminds me. Hang on...’

 

Taking his gelding’s reins into one hand, he partially slid off his pack, undoing the toggles holding it closed and throwing open the flap with the other. From the very top of the pack, he withdrew something large and bundled up, and held it out to her.

 

‘Here. This is for you, and I didn’t know if you’d think to bring one. You’ll be needing it.’

 

It was another cloak, not unlike the one he was wearing – made of heavy grey wool, with a large hood trimmed in fur. She took it quickly so that he could fix his pack, but just held it in one hand once she had it, looking confused.

 

‘Why would I need a cloak? I don’t need to hide from anybody.’

 

He hadn’t returned both hands to the reins; instead, he was using the free one to clutch at his hood, making sure it didn’t fly off in the wind. From beneath it, he snorted. ‘That’s not what it’s for.’

 

‘Then what? It’s still summer. We have another month of warm weather.’

 

He sounded impatient. ‘That doesn’t matter, where we’re headed. Northwatch Keep is near the Sea of Ghosts. Have you ever seen the Sea of Ghosts?’

 

She hadn’t, but she’d heard stories; as soon as he said the words, realization fell into place, and she winced.

 

‘Oh. Right.’

 

‘ _Right_ ,’ he repeated. ‘Doesn’t matter _when_ you go up. The Sea of Ghosts is always the same. Summer doesn’t even exist, there.’

 

They were grim words; all at once, Merrin was glad that she’d thought to pack a warm set of clothes. She didn’t really have an opportunity to open her pack, so she draped the cloak across the horn of her saddle, and thanked him quietly.

 

On that cobbled road, the day was as beautiful as ever, with wildflowers of every color dotting their path on either side, and puffy clouds as white as snow scudding across a deep blue sky. But soon, that wouldn’t matter a bit. As they settled into a silence back-dropped by the _clip-clop_ of hooves on cobblestone, a fresh wave of realization really hit Merrin, in terms of what they were doing.

 

They were making a beeline for the unknown.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've been looking forward to posting this story for a very long time. If you have any thoughts or comments, feel free to share them :)


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